STORIES

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A plague upon the land

By 2025, women had had enough. The word went out: We are marching on Washington. Buses queued up in cities nationwide. Women of all ages got on, some herding toddlers or carrying infants, some so massively pregnant they had to be helped up the steps by their fellow marchers. Nobody bothered to bring diaper bags. They didn’t expect to be in Washington for long.

The travelers disembarked at the Washington Mall, split into groups, and converged on the various government buildings. They chanted as they went, led by a tall woman with a megaphone. She shouted, and her voice went out over the milling crowds: “You wanted them, we didn’t, now they’re yours.”

Television crews were soon on the scene, weaving around police officers who stood along the fences and curbs, befuddled by so many women and children.

A man with long sideburns and a mustache thrust a microphone in a woman’s face as she bent down to tie her child’s shoelace. “What is happening here, why are you marching on Washington?”

“We’re fed up, is what,” the woman said. She walked away. Her child ran after her.

The reporter talked toward his camera operator as they maneuvered through the crush of irate women and whining children. “Oh, my goodness, it looks like someone is giving birth right on the sidewalk in front of the White House! Well, would you look at that! We’ll have to edit that, for sure. Jeez. That baby just plopped right out! She cut through the cord! Holy crap! And now she’s walking away!”

The reporter ran after the woman who was staggering back toward the line of buses at the curb. “Wait, miss, you left your baby on the sidewalk!”

“You can keep it,” she said. “You wanted it, I didn’t, now it’s yours. Oh, my aching back, I gotta lie down.”

The reporter ran back to the squalling baby. There were other babies now on the sidewalk, screaming and waving tiny arms and legs.

The reporter stopped a woman with two small children in tow. “What is happening here?”

“Listen, we’ve had enough. You didn’t give us the choice to decide, so now it’s your problem. You want them? You take care of them.” She bent down to her kids. “I complied with the law. I birthed you. But I don’t have to keep you. You guys are on your own.” She walked away toward the buses at the curb, leaving her bewildered kids staring after her.

Unattended toddlers and preschoolers were now the majority of the crowd, all crying. The mothers had lined up to board the buses. They were still chanting, “You wanted them, we didn’t, now they’re yours.”

The camera operator panned around the scene, filming police officers trying to soothe howling children and pick up freshly birthed babies and infants from the gutter. The reporter fell to his knees on the grass. Small children swarmed him, trying to get on his lap. He waved at his camera operator. “Bill, don’t film this, cut, cut, jeez!”

Anchors on evening news broadcasts all around the country showed the same horrifying scene, in the street, on the sidewalks, on the White House lawn, on the Capitol steps, a sea of abandoned children being rounded up by National Guard troops, some of whom appeared to recognize their own children among the throng.

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We are all fired

“We built the wall, Boss. All the way around the whole country. All the borders are sealed.”

The President nodded without looking away from the TV. “Nobody comes in, not even one lousy child, right?” He dipped a chicken nugget in sauce and ate it.

“Right, Boss. Not even a coyote could get through. The country is secure. What do you want us to do next?”

“Check your to-do list, Bruce,” the President said with some impatience. “I think the next item is to round up all the people who don’t belong here and expel them. The vermin and such.”

Bruce grimaced. “Uh, Boss, how we supposed to do that, with all the borders sealed up tighter than a drum? We didn’t leave no doorways. You want we should put them on planes? Fly them to Mexland?”

The President rolled an eye at his Chief of Staff. “Too expensive. Put them in camps, Bruce. And round up all the members of the opposition party, too, while you are at it. Send them to Nevada or something. I know, build some camps in the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Like to see them hike out of there!”

“Boss, how we gonna feed all them people? All them illegals work on the farms.”

“I dunno, Bruce, you’re my fix-it guy, you figure it out.”

Three months later.

“Where’s my sandwich, Bruce?” The President stabbed some buttons on the remote. “And get my channels back. What is going on in this place? The service has gone to hell.”

“Boss, we’re running out of food.”

“We! Who is ‘we’? I ordered a Reuben and a dish of ice cream. Rocky Road, to be precise. Although I would accept chocolate ripple if that is all we have down there.”

“We, as in all of us, Boss. We got no more food. I haven’t eaten in three days. The kitchen is empty. The cooks are gone.”

“Gone! Those ungrateful swine! Fire them all.”

“You said round up all the riff-raff, Boss. We did. No more poisoning the blood of rightful Americans. They are all at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Most of them are dead by now, judging by the awful stink.

“What’s wrong with the water, it tastes like piss,” the President grumbled.

“That’s because it is, Boss. Sorry, the waste treatment plants have all gone down. We found a Berkey system, and we’re all peeing into it.”

The President lumbered to his feet. “You mean to tell me, I’ve been drinking your piss? You’re fired!”

Bruce shrugged and headed for the door.

“No, wait, I was just kidding. Listen, if you stand by me, I’ll stand by you. Together, we’re making this country great again.”

“You betcha, Boss.”

Three months later.

The phone on the Resolute Desk rang. The President answered.

“Collect call from Mr. Bruce Babbitt for uh, the President of the United States.”

“Bruce? Where are you? Why the collect—?”

“Do you accept the charges?” came the tinny voice over the line.

“Hell, no! Wait, yes, I’ll accept the charges, for like two minutes, make it snappy, Bruce. What the hell am I paying you for?”

“Sorry, Boss. Hate to mention it, you haven’t paid me in six months. My phone got cut off. Same with my heat. Nobody is getting paid. What’s left of us, we moved our families into the White House basement. “

“We’re the richest nation on earth! What happened to all the money?” the President raged.

“Nobody’s working no more, Boss, so nobody’s paying taxes. We can’t even buy food.”

“Well, wait. I had a meatball sandwich today.”

“You don’t want to know what kinda meat that was in that sandwich. In any case, we are having to scrounge for supplies further and further out in the city. The grocery stores have all been looted. Most of the homes are empty and the ones that aren’t, the occupants are barricaded with stockpiles of guns and ammo you would not believe. Some serious AR-15 firepower, let me tell you. Sonny bought the farm the other day when he went on someone’s front porch to ask for some water.”

“Are they blacks?”

“No, Boss, they are red-blooded American patriots who believe in the Second Amendment.”

“Well, we need to nationalize all resources.”

“Boss, there’s no one left on the staff to do all this stuff. I haven’t slept in days.”

“This is all Jyna’s fault, isn’t it? Get General What’s His Name in here, tell him to bring the nuclear football. I’m done being the laughinstock of the world. I’m going to blow the hell out of Jyna, the PU, the whole stinking lot of them!”

“Boss, nobody knows what the rest of the world is thinking, not since the internet and the TV channels stopped working. For all we know, the rest of the world is in the same boat we are.”

The President gnashed his dentures. “I doubt that. I know those guys. They used to be on my side. They all wanted to be just like me! Ungrateful losers. I’ll blow them all to smithereens. Get that General in here, now, or you’re fired!”

Bruce picked up a phone. “No dial tone, Boss. And it doesn’t matter, I can tell you, the army, the navy, the air force, the marines, even the coast guard, have all deserted. Nobody is mannning the bases or the missile silos.”

“You’re kidding me! My generals are gone? Well, what about my diehard minions, the ones who used to buy my NFTs? The ones who believe all my lies, I mean, fibs. Where are my loyal followers?”

“Camped outside on the lawn, Boss. Eating grass, and possibly each other when nobody’s looking, building homemade bombs, and singing Kumbayah. Look out the window, see all them bonfires? Beyond those bomb craters? Those are your devoted fans.”

The President peered between the curtain. “What the hell are they waiting for?”

“You, Boss. They say you are the Messiah. They’re waiting for the second coming, you are going to make it all better, take us back to the good times, the 1950s, when things made sense and people knew their proper place.”

“Are they insane?”

“What do you mean, Boss? They are thrilled! You’ve kept your promises! You built the wall, you deported everyone who didn’t belong here, you drained the swamp! You are truly the Messiah, to these people, Boss. Sure, they are kind of inept, and they sure do stink since there’s no water flowing anywhere these days. They haven’t totally nailed their bomb-making skills, learning by trial and error, mostly error, but the one’s who are left, they are the best of the best, the most dedicated of the hordes who stormed the Capitol. They believe in your cause, even though they are starving. You couldn’t ask for more loyal troops. You got what you wanted, Boss. Aren’t you happy? They all are. Just tell them what to do, Boss. The world is yours for the taking. What’s left of it, anyway.”

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To each their own

“I don’t know how you live in that big square box,” said Coyote, lolling near the edge of the patio where Hetty played with her doll in the fading sunshine. “It smells wrong.”

“I don’t know how you live in the open desert,” Hetty said, making her doll sit in a little pink plastic car. “It’s too wild.”

“I’m a wild thing,” Coyote said, eyeing the doll. “Is that food? It doesn’t smell like food.”

“No, it’s not food,” Hetty said. She held the doll up by one foot. “Plastic, see?”

Coyote flung back his head and yipped a couple times.

Hetty frowned. “What was that for?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Go get a rabbit,” Hetty motioned toward the dry wash in back of the trailer. “They are everywhere.”

“I’m tired. They run too fast. I want something slow.”

“How about a lizard? Some of those guys aren’t so fast. Not fast enough to keep getting flattened by cars.”

“Too small. Not sweet.” Coyote yawned. “Are you food?”

“No, not me. I’m a person.”

“What does that mean?”

Hetty drove the pink car on the concrete, maneuvering around a blue ceramic pot filled with dry dirt. The aloe vera in it had died long ago, but her mother liked the pot as decoration. It made the trailer look more classy, Mom said. Hetty stopped the car and looked at Coyote with a stern eye. “I’m the top of the food chain. If anyone is going to eat anyone, it would be me eating you.”

Coyote seemed to grin, showing rows of sharp gleaming teeth. “I’d like to see you try it. Look at my claws, look at my teeth. I’m ten times faster than you.”

“And I’m twenty times smarter than you.”

Coyote stretched and sat up on his haunches. “Let’s each do a riddle. If you win, you eat me. If I win, I eat you.”

Hetty paused the plastic car. “Okay. What’s your riddle?”

“I die in the spring, come alive in the summer, die again in the fall, and live again in the winter. What am I?”

“The Rillito River.”

Coyote growled. “Luck. What is your riddle?”

“What do you call a rabbit with fleas?”

“Dinner.”

“No, Coyote,” Hetty chortled. “Bugs Bunny!”

Coyote got to his feet. “You can eat me, little human girl, but you’ll have to catch me first.” He whirled and disappeared under the fence into the wash.

Hetty waved her hand. “Good hunting, Coyote. See you tomorrow.”

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Invisible

“What’s wrong, Celeste?” Trudy looked at her friend. “You aren’t eating your salad. Would you like something else instead? I’ll gladly treat you.”

Celeste shook her head and poked some lettuce. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Gabby doused the pile of french fries on her plate with ketchup. “Aren’t you feeling well?” Even though she was the wealthiest one of the four friends, her tastes were definitely fast food.

Celeste stabbed a piece of chicken, examined it thoughtfully, and put it back on her plate. “You guys probably won’t be able to relate to this, but it’s been bothering me for a while. The problem is, I feel invisible when I go into stores.”

“Invisible!” Della waved a well-manicured hand and almost knocked over her glass.

“You three don’t have this problem, I bet. When you go shopping, people probably run up to you to ask you how they can help. Not me. Seems like since I turned fifity, I’ve become more and more invisible. For instance, I went into Best Buy yesterday. I needed an ethernet cable, where the heck would I find that! Who knows? I stood there in the open and put that look on, you know that look that says, here I am, I need help finding a thing in this mess, somebody come to my rescue, please! Nobody. People walked by within three feet of me, and didn’t even look my way. It was as if I did not exist.”

“You are not invisible, Celeste. I see you perfectly clearly,” Della said. “At least, before I finish my third martini, ha ha.”

“It’s crazy, I know. I feel like I could have picked up a big screen TV and walked out with it on my back. Literally, nobody paid any attention to me. I had to find the stupid cable myself. I had to yell at the cashier to get her to ring me up. She actually said, ‘where did you come from?’ and I don’t think she meant, what city was I born in. I think she didn’t see me. That is weird, right?”

Trudy leaned forward with a look Celeste knew well. “It’s hard after fifty, I know. It takes a lot more work, for sure. You could dress up a bit, honey. You know, make more of an effort. I know you have limited means, but there are some very cute designer outfits at Ross.”

“You need shoes, too,” said Gabby. “I got some black suede Dolce & Gabbana pumps at TJ Maxx, can you believe it? I never shop there, I was just passing by, and they just happened to have my size. I couldn’t say no.”

Celeste sighed. “I know you all mean well, but honestly, I don’t really care how I look. But that is not the point. Anyone who goes into Best Buy deserves service, whether she’s a hundred years old or twenty.”

“No argument, honey,” Trudy said. “You know what your problem is? I mean, besides the fact that you are poor and middle-aged? You’re white, and you’re female.”

“Excuse me?” Celeste said, looking up from her salad with mild surprise.

“Think about it. If you were black, they’d be on you like a shot. They would follow you around the store, pretending to wait on you, waiting for you to stick something in your purse.”

“Oh, come on,” Celeste said.

“She’s right,” Della nodded, signaling the waiter for another drink. “And what’s more, if you were white and male, they would be rolling out the red carpet for you. I was at Best Buy myself the other day with Romero. The salesperson came right up to us, but he did all his schmoozing to Romero. He barely looked at me.”

“So, what we are saying is that there is a hierarchy,” Gabby said. “Top of the heap, white and male. Second tier, white and female with money. Next down, black, any gender. And the bottom of the barrel . . . “

“Older white female. “

Gabby tapped the table. “Let’s put it to the test. I suggest after we finish here, we walk down the street to Best Buy. “

The four friends finished their happy hour lunches and soon were at the entrance to the Best Buy store.

“Let’s let Celeste go in first. We’ll watch from just inside the door,” Gabby said. “Got your phone ready, Trudy? Della is too tipsy to video.”

“I am not,” protested Della. “Okay, you go on in there, Celeste, and act like you deserve to be helped! Be assertive! Shoulders back, that’s it. Put some swing in those hips.”

Celeste shook her head but did her best to comply. In a moment, she had disappeared inside the store.

“Wait, what happened? Where did she go?” Trudy said, looking up from her phone screen. “It looked like she just vanished.”

“Did she run down that aisle?” Trudy pointed. “Let’s go in.”

Gabby led the way. The three women paused inside the entrance. Five blue-shirted sales associates hustled toward them. “Hello, welcome in! Need a new smartphone? How about a laptop? What can we help you find today?”

“We’re looking for our friend, actually,” Gabby said, looking right and left. “Did you see a woman, about this tall, older gal wearing black?”

Three sales reps drifted away. The remaining two both shook their heads. “No one came in, we’ve been standing here watching the door the last twenty minutes. Are you sure she didn’t go next door to the beauty salon?”

Trudy snorted. “No, trust us on that one. She came in here right before us. You must have seen her.”

“Spread out, you guy,” Gabby said. “We’ll find her. Maybe she had a seizure or something. Check all the aisles.”

The friends fanned out and searched the store, row by row. They met back up at the door after a fruitless half hour.

“I guess she was right, she really did turn invisible!” Della said.

“Wait, no, I see something! Over there, do you see someone waving something at us . . . I think it’s Celeste! And she’s waving . . . a hundred dollar bill!”

“Celeste! What are you doing? Where were you?”

“I was right here, right next to you guys!” Celeste said. They could tell she was miffed. “I followed Della around the store to make sure she didn’t fall into anything. Or steal anything.”

“I beg your pardon!” Della said, looking chagrined. “It was only a little thing.”

“How come we couldn’t see you?” Gabby asked, touching Celeste’s shoulder as if to make sure she was really there. “We searched everywhere.”

“I figured it out,” Celeste said. She held up the hundred dollar bill. “As long as I make it obvious I have money, I am not invisible. As soon as I put it away, nobody can see me. Somehow waving the money around cancels out being white, old, and female.”

“That’s just crazy,” Della said.

“Oh, yeah?” Celeste put the hundred back in her fanny pack.

Her three friends jumped backward in alarm. “Celeste! Where did you go?”

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Three hundred years of fashion

“Eugene, we know fashion designers have always competed for media attention. It comes with the job, going on tour, being interviewed, all that hoopla. Designers try to outdo each other to see who can be the most shocking and depraved. Do you ever feel sometimes you go too far?”

Eugene shrugged, making the shoulders on his black and white sequinned cape ripple like snake skin. He leaned back in the barrel shaped chair and crossed his legs to show off his lurex jodhpurs and black patent leather riding boots. “I don’t know what you mean, Dave.”

Dave inched forward toward the edge of his chair. “Well, like, for instance, take what you are wearing now. It’s so, so . . . Liberace! One might say that cape is completely out of style, hasn’t been in style for a hundred years or more.”

“One might say that,” Eugene said, examining his long black curved fingernails. “One would be wrong. Listen, Dave, fashion fads come and go, but style remains a constant, am I correct? For example, in the 1700s, men wore long waistcoats, breeches, silk hose, and white powdered wigs.”

“Before my time, thank God,” Dave smiled and smoothed the creases of his sans-a-belt slacks.

“The point is, that was the style. Everyone thought those men looked fabulous. Then, in the late 1800s, men wore tailored wool suits and top hats, cravats made of silk, pointy-toed boots. You’ve seen the pictures.”

“Foppish, to say the least.” Dave adjusted his pale blue cardigan and tried to sit up straighter. Interviewing famous fashion designers always made him feel inadequate.

“Not foppish! Stylish! Fast forward, during the mid-1900s, we had cardigans, slacks, and wingtips not unlike what you are wearing, Dave, soon to be replaced by Nehru-collared shirts, seersucker jackets, and bellbottoms. Not fifty years later, the style pendulum swung the other way, and by the late 1900s, it was all about big shoulders, unconstructed linen jackets, and pegged pants.”

“Right, I saw that documentary,” Dave nodded. “Does it seem like fashion is getting crazier by the decade? I can’t keep up. What happened after 2000, Eugene?”

“Designers have always been inspired by streetwear, Dave. Some of Ralph Lauren’s best looks came straight off the polo field. So, it wasn’t a big surprise that by the 2010s, the Bummish Look started to emerge, influenced by the streetwear of the growing homeless population.”

“Right, right,” Dave said. “I saw Men’s Vogue before it went under. Everyone wore long trench coats over baggy ripped trousers. Belts were made of burlap, if I remember correctly. Their shoes were scuffed and torn.”

“Right, it’s no easy feat to take fine leather, silk, and rayon and turn it into something that looks like an unwashed person has slept in for a year without once taking it off. Our design house employs some of the finest tailors in the world, and let me tell you, they worked in difficult conditions that season. It takes a lot of paint and dirt to make a garment look bummish.”

“The fashion photo spreads were edgy during that time. Here’s an advertisement for the House of Dior’s interpretation of the Bummish Look. Can we zoom in on that? It looks like we are seeing fashion models in a homeless encampment. Help me understand this, Eugene.”

“Well, Dave, it was all about verisimilitude back then. False artifice. Rich models posing as poor people to get rich people to buy clothes that made them look like poor people.”

“Did it work?”

“Pure genius. Until the fashion pendulum swung the other way. After that, nobody could stand the Bummish Look, and it was everywhere, so if you recall, cities ran all the homeless out of town. Say, Dave, you look like you could use a makeover. That cardigan must be five seasons old, am I correct?”

Dave squirmed. “Well, yeah, but there’s still plenty of wear left in it. I can’t just get rid of it. I think it’s cashmere. Got it at Target before they shut down. It’s so comfortable.”

“Dave, fashion is all about planned obsolescence, and style is never about comfort. Why don’t you drop by the atelier next week, we’ll get you decked out in some of our fall looks, before they hit the runways.”

“That sounds great, Eugene. What is your new collection called?”

“We’re tentatively calling it Hillbilly Holocaust. It’s kind of a cross between pioneer and genocide. But don’t tell anyone, we haven’t got our ad campaign finalized. Oh wait, are we live on TV right now?” Eugene smirked at the camera and tossed his long black curls. “Consider this advance publicity.”

Dave turned to the camera and adjusted his bowtie. “You heard it here first, folks. Tune in next week, when we’ll be talking with Selma Fig, director of Think Yourself Rich: The True Story of How One Woman Used her Imagination to Achieve Wealth and Fame Without Lifting a Finger. See you next week!”

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Making room for more

glowing circle of light

“Remember when we thought the earth couldn’t hold more than ten billion people?” Marge chuckled, looking around the conference room table. “Never underestimate the power of human ingenuity!”

Dale slurped coffee and pretended to read his tablet. Everyone knew he was playing the new video game, Dinkeytown, the goal of which was to cram as many humans as possible into a ten by ten by ten foot cube that looked very similar to the office building in which they all worked. Thang and Velma giggled and seemed to be playing footsies under the table. Marge watched her team with a bemused expression.

“Kent, can’t you move over a little?” Ann said in a peeved voice. “You made me run over my new Gucci crossbody messenger bag.”

Everyone looked at Kent, who was sitting crosslegged on the floor with his head bumping the ceiling. His foot had accidentally shoved Ann’s leather chair and now the strap of her bag was wrapped around the plastic wheel.

“Well, sorry,” Kent said. “I can’t help it if the Minimizer didn’t work right today.” He tried to stretch out one cramped leg and almost overturned the table.

“Relax, Team,” Marge said. “Kent, we understand. Sometimes it happens. You can file a complaint with the Population Bureau.”

“Right, like they would care!” Kent said. “What if I have to stay this size forever? I’m stuck between regular and minimized! I can’t fit here at work and I won’t be able to get up my front steps at home. At least if I was stuck small, I could move to Dinkeytown, if Mary would get minimized with me. But if she wants to stay regular size, my life is ruined.”

“Oh, wah,” Ann said. “I knew someone who got turned into a giant.”

Velma and Thang stopped their canoodling and stared at Ann. “You mean, giantized?” Velma gasped. “I thought that was a myth.”

“It’s rare,” Marge said. “Come on, you guys. Let’s get back on track. Kent will get back to regular size on the way home, and life will go on as usual.”

“No, wait,” Dale said. “You mean to tell me, we are wrecking our bodies being put through the Minimizer twice a day, five days a week, just so we can take up less space at work, and then get regularized when we go home, and some dude gets to be a giant and take up twenty times as much space as a regular guy? That’s not fair.”

“Imagine what he could do to Dinkeytown,” Velma smirked. “Like Godzilla!”

“No, like that guy, Liverbutt. Liverpool. What was his name?” Ann laughed.

“You’re thinking of Gulliver,” Marge sighed.

Ann shook her head. “No, it’ll come to me.”

“I’m serious,” Dale said. “Look at what happened to Kent, stuck halfway between minimized and regular. That could happen to any of us. If the Minimizer stops working, there won’t be enough room on the planet for all of us.”

Velma’s eyes got big. “You mean, they’d have to bring back the . . . ?”

Dale nodded. “Yep. The Purge.”

Everyone was silent, contemplating the worst period of human history, which fortunately happened decades before any of them had been born.

“Myth,” scoffed Thang, patting Velma’s hand. “Ancient history, like that Holocart thing from the seventeenth century BC.”

Marge rolled her eyes. “Your lack of knowledge doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence in our education system. Come on, we need a new slogan for the next generation of Minimizers, coming out next year. The health insurance companies are balking, according to the higher-ups. We need something that will convince them minimization of the future of the human species.”

Dale picked up his tablet and resumed his game. “Like we have a choice.”

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The wheel of fate keeps on turning

“Tell us what’s at stake, Velma!” the host yelled into the microphone.

Velma, dressed in a shiny silver gown, pointed with a well-manicured hand at the huge wheel on the wall. “Well, Vince, the accused basically faces two outcomes, guilty or not guilty. Just like in real life, the Wheel will determine their fate.”

“Lifted up by the Wheel or crushed under it,” Vince joked, tugging at his sparkly blue bowtie. The studio audience laughed and applauded. “Better them than me, is all I can say! Let’s bring out our first contestant.”

A middle-aged woman with grayish skin and bleached hair trudged onto the stage and faced Vince and Velma. Tepid applause faded. The camera operator swung around to capture the contestant’s resigned expression.

“Let’s see, here,” Vince said, reading from a notecard. “You are Mabel Finster, is that correct, of 555 N Redland Lane, Carson City, NV? And you’ve been accused of . . . stealing a bottle of Clairol Easy Does It Highlight Enhancer from a Walmart store!”

Mabel stared at the floor as the audience hooted and whistled.

“Well, step on up to the Wheel, Mabel, and let’s see what Fate has in store for you!”

Mabel shuffled over to the wall and looked up at the Wheel of Fate looming overhead. Alternating segments of red and green blinking lights created a hideous roulette wheel. Red or green. Stop or go. The two possible outcomes were clear.

“Go ahead, Mabel, give it a spin!”

“I have bursitis in my shoulders,” Mabel muttered. “Can’t lift my arms.”

Vince turned to look at the audience. “Bursitis, she says!” he laughed, giving her a sidelong look. “More like reluctance to learn her Fate! What shall we do, Audience?”

“Spin it, spin it!” shouted the audience.

“You can press the Autospin Button, Mabel,” Vince said, waving a hand at a big red button on the wall. “We had that installed specifically for cases like yours. Reluctance to learn your Fate will not halt Fate. She will have her way! Go ahead, punch that button, Mabel. We are all dying to find out what Fate has in store for you.”

Mabel gave the red button a tentative push and stood back. The Wheel of Fate started spinning with a clamor of bells and flashing lights, slowly at first, and then faster. The howling of the audience was lost in the din. Mabel stood, shoulders sagging, and waited while the Wheel gradually lost momentum.

“Red, green, red, green,” shouted the audience as the Wheel slowed. “Red!”

“Mabel, the Wheel of Fate has determined you are guilty of petty theft!” Vince chortled. “How do you feel about that?”

Mabel shrugged.

“Velma, tell us what happens next!”

Velma posed by the Wheel. “Well, Vince, now the Wheel of Fate will determine how long Mabel’s sentence will be.” She pulled a gold lever protruding from the wall with an elegant well-practiced gesture. “The segments of the Wheel will now offer a range of possible sentence outcomes, from one day to one thousand years.”

Vince turned to the audience. “What do you think Mabel’s sentence will be, Audience? What punishment does Mabel deserve for stealing a bottle of hair color? One day? Ten days? Ten years?”

“Five years!” shouted a fat man in the front row.

“Ten years!” screamed the woman with bleached hair sitting next to him.

“Five thousand years!” yelled a man in a Walmart manager uniform.

Vince held up a hand. “The Wheel of Fate only goes to one thousand years, have a heart!” The audience laughed. “Okay, Mabel, it’s your turn to find out how long you are going to be in jail. Step on up there, no button on this round, so you’ll have to give it a spin.”

Mabel winced as she lifted her arm to give the edge of the Wheel a feeble nudge. The Wheel began turning, accompanied by loud sirens and clanging bells. Neon lights flashed as it hit peak speed and then slowed.

“Five, four, three, two . . . five hundred years!” Vince said into the mic. “Mabel, sorry, the Wheel of Fate has determined your sentence will be five hundred years for misdemeanor shoplifting.”

The audience was mostly silent, except for a few snickers and one “serves her right” from the Walmart manager.

Vince addressed the audience with a serious expression. “This sentence might seem harsh to some of you,” he said. “However, we must remember, Fate is neutral. Fate will always determine what happens. Our show acknowledges that we have no control over Fate. The premise of Wheel of Fate is that letting Fate take its course is the most fair and equitable way to decide outcomes. Our task is to accept what Fate has given us. It is what it is!” He turned to Mabel. “How are you feeling, Mabel? Are you ready to start serving your sentence.”

“Whatever,” Mabel mumbled.

“Don’t worry, Mabel,” Vince called as the bailiff led her away. “The Students for Fairness in Sentencing are already working on your case. Just hang tight. You’ll probably be out in thirty years, maybe less with good behavior.”

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Adrift

Frank could not see land in any direction. His small boat floated on a calm sea. He could not remember how he had come to be here, in a wooden dinghy, adrift, apparently in the open ocean. It could be a big lake, he thought. I might be out in the middle. There might be land nearby, hidden along the misty horizon.

Frank sat in the bottom of the boat and drifted for a while without thinking. Oars, he thought after some time. Paddles. He sat up and looked around the little boat. The bottom of the boat was empty of anything he might use to propel the craft in some direction. No folded up sail, no lump of tarp to use as a shelter, no canisters of water or food, not even a waste bucket. Frank resumed his position in the bottom of the boat and drifted.

The light never gets quite light, he realized some time later. Darkness falls sometimes, but it never gets completely dark. The sky is always somewhat lighter than the water, but the horizon is hard to define. Am I dead, Frank wondered. Is this what death feels like, eternity in an empty boat?

Frank emerged from a meditative reverie and tentatively reached over the side of the boat to immerse his hand in the water. I feel nothing, he thought. The ocean must be the same temperature as my hand. He watched his hand ripple under the surface. It doesn’t look like my hand anymore. It looks like someone else’s hand.

What someone else? Have I ever known anything but this empty boat?

Frank tried to remember what had come before. Images seeped away like mist. Something like a face, not his face. He took his hand out of the water and patted his face with both hands. What do I look like? One side of his face was wet, the other dry. Two halves of one person. Who am I?

The fundamental question was too much. Frank reclined in the bottom of the boat. This must be death, he thought. No hunger, no thirst, no movement, just the rocking of the boat. How long can I endure this endless rocking? Should I wish for a storm?

Time passed. For Frank, time had no meaning. Light and dark were hardly distinguishable. Did I ever know light and dark, he wondered. Morning and night? Sun and moon? How could I forget how bright the sun was rising over the mountains. Mountains? Did I once know mountains?

I surely must be dead, Frank thought. Or in a coma, in a hospital. Am I surrounded by my family? Are they deciding whether to turn off the machines?

Do I care? Frank resumed his position and let his bones dissolve into the curve of the hull. He was content to drift. Let them turn off the machine, he thought. I am an empty boat.

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Water

Jill inserted her card into the park water dispenser and checked her phone while Bingo lapped out of the stainless steel water bowl. She looked up from her phone as Bingo began to yap. A child-sized creature hunched just beyond the edge of the overhead light.

“Please.”

“Oh, my goodness, is that a, are you a . . . ?”

“We are People of the Sand.”

The Sandie’s tongue hung out like a dog’s. It seemed to be male, maybe three feet tall, clad in a rough thigh-length garment of cloth that looked handwoven of twigs and desert grass. Lanks of dirty twisted hair hung to his shoulders, framing a deeply lined face the color of desert sand. His eyes were focused on the water in the bowl.

“I thought the Sandies were myth!” Jill said. “Legend!” She wondered how many times she had walked Bingo on the gravel trails of this park, feet away from a Sandie, and never known.

“Water.” The Sandie pointed at the bowl.

“Oh, heavens, of course.” Jill stood back from the fountain. The Sandie approached cautiously and slurped from the bowl.

A dozen Sandies slowly emerged into the light, watching Jill and Bingo warily. They sidled to the water. The bigger Sandies helped the little ones drink.

“We thank you,” the largest Sandie said, bowing to Jill. The group edged back toward the desert.

“Wait, don’t you have enough water? Where do you live?”

“We live in the hollows of the saguaros,” the Sandie said. “Once we had houses made of stones on the banks of a wide blue river. The Invaders froze our river and all the rivers for miles around. The earth is restless and hot. Our streams have dwindled to trickles. We are dying of thirst.”

“Invaders? Oh, you mean the State built dams on the river. Yes, there is a water shortage, it’s true. The State’s conservation efforts seem to be working, though, so they say. There’s enough water to build two thousand more homes in this area.” Jill waved her hand to indicate the retirement community in the valley where she lived with Bingo.

“You have been kind to us today,” the Sandie said. “Because of your kindness, I will give you a word of advice. Move to higher ground before sunset tomorrow.”

“Higher . . . what are you talking about? I can’t just move.”

“Move, or lose everything, including your life,” the Sandie said and turned its back.

Jill walked home with Bingo. As she walked by the lush lawns and shrubs of her neighbors’ yards, the episode with the Sandie seemed more and more like a dream. The familiar burbling of fountains emanated from almost every front yard. Sprinklers were running, she noticed, but almost everyone had their systems on timers, so the sprinkling only occurred in the early morning hours. To minimize evaporation, of course. Water ran off the lawns, efficiently caught by concrete gutters and sent toward grated sewer openings. Jill had never thought much about where that water went or how it could have been put to better use than keeping desert lawns green in the summer.

As the day wore on, Jill felt inclined to pack a few things in her car. The next day she packed a few more things. By noon, she and Bingo were headed toward a recreational area in the foothills above the dam. The sun was warm, but trees offered some shade. She and Bingo sat on a picnic blanket under a spreading Ponderosa pine and watched the dam implode.

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Decisions, decisions

“Welcome to Only Leony Can Fix It, your cable TV guru for all your decisions and dilemmas. Need some help deciding whether to leave your husband? Need to make a decision on kicking your drug-addict son out of the house? We got you covered, with 24/7 advice from America’s favorite fixer, Leony! Only $9.99 per minute! We have our first caller of the evening on the line. “

Todd, Team 17 producer, had been dozing in his chair and Rima, Team 17 tech, had been reading a vampire romance novel. Todd sat up and Rima put her book down. They both put on headsets as the call came through.

“Hello, Caller, you are on the air with Leony! What can Leony help you with today?”

Todd cued up the prerecorded video of Leony sitting at her desk with a polite expression on her face and got that rolling for the viewing audience. He nodded at Rima. Rima pressed a button on the array in front of her. A familiar voice came over the studio speakers, and both of them winced.

“Hi Leony, it’s Sandra again.”

The stock image of Leony nodding thoughtfully gaveTodd a few moments to choose an appropriate response from a list he knew well. He quickly clicked a radio button next to the name Sandra. Then he pressed the GO button.

“Good evening, Sandra,” Leony’s lips seamlessly pronounced the caller’s name. “What decision can we help you make today?”

“I’m having trouble deciding what I should wear to my sister’s wedding. I could wear the black lace from Ann Taylor, it looks good on me, people say. Or I could wear my white St. Laurent, to send a message.”

Todd spoke into the microphone on his headset. “Sandra, it sounds as if you don’t care for your sister very much,” Todd said. He watched Leony’s screen image to make sure her lips matched his words. His voice, sent through the computer, emerged sounding like Leony’s voice. After months of training watching Leony videos, Todd knew how to phrase his response so that not even Leony herself could tell the difference. With the cheatsheet of probing questions on his screen, Todd could be Leony in his sleep.

“I hate her! Stupid cow.”

“You could just not attend the wedding,” Todd said.

After a long moment, Sandra’s snort came over the speakers. “As if.”

“Sandra, I recommend you wear something light but not white, or dark but not black. You don’t have to prove anything to your sister, Sandra. Odds are her marriage will fail in a couple years, anyway, and then you’ll have the last laugh.”

“You’re right, Leony! Thanks for the advice. I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

Rima gave Todd a thumbs-up indicating Sandra’s credit card charge had gone through.

“Good luck, Sandra!” Leony’s smiling image faded as Todd cut to the main screen with the Only Leony Can Fix It logo and call-in information.

An hour later, another call came through to Team 17. Todd sat up with a start and replaced his headset. Rima put her book down. “Welcome, Caller, you are on the air with Only Leony Can Fix It,” Todd said into the mic. “What decision can Leony help you make today?”

“Listen, it’s Sandra again, and I know what is going on.”

Todd and Rima frowned at each other. “What do you mean, Sandra?” Todd asked.

“I know that’s not really Leony there in the studio.”

Rima’s eyes got big.

“Why would you say such a thing, Sandra?” Todd’s fingers flew through the computer commands. Leony’s expression on the screen emerged as a skillfully created mix of perplexity and compassion.

“Because I have the real Leony here in my apartment!”

“That can’t be, Sandra. You know I’m sitting right here in the studio, at my desk, like I always am. I’m always here for you, to help you make those difficult life decisions.”

A separate phone line lit up. It was Leony’s private number. Rima punched a button and Leony’s face appeared on a monitor next to the prerecorded studio feed. The real Leony was rarely seen in the studio, but Todd and Rima had no doubt that the angry face belonged to their boss. Todd and Rima looked at the monitor in horror.

“Listen, you blockheads, she kidnapped me on my way to the opera. My dress is ruined. She wants a million dollars ransom, can you believe it?”

“And free access to Only Leony Can Fix It for life!” came Sandra’s voice off screen.

“Where are you?” Todd asked. “We’ll send the police.”

“She says she’ll kill me if we call the police,” Leony said in disgust.

“Wait, there’s someone pounding on my door,” Sandra said.

There was a pause, followed by some excited shouting and commotion. Leony turned back to the camera with a triumphant grin. “I’ve been rescued. Some people in the building recognized me. Sandra is being subdued. I’ll phone you when I get home.”

The monitor went dark.

“That was unexpected,” Rima said in a shaky voice.

Todd took a long swig from his energy beverage. “You can say that again.”

The phone line lit up. Another call for Team 17. Todd sat up straight and put on his headset. “Back to work.” He punched a button. “Hello, you are on the air with Only Leony Can Fix It. How can we help you make a decision today?”

“I need some advice,” came Sandra’s familiar voice over the phone line. “I’m going to be arrested soon. If I wanted to go on the lam, should I go to Mexico or Costa Rica? Or maybe Canada? What do you think?”

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