Have a Happy Day!
Beyond the canopy of steel skyscrapers, I catch a glimpse of the sky. It’s darker than usual. A miasma of black and orange.
“Ticket,” I hear someone say. It’s the bus driver, a stocky lump of a man. His posture is closed and his arms hang heavy over his steering wheel, but his face welcomes me warmly. “Do you have your ticket?” The bus driver smiles. His toothy grin is so big, I can see the tops of his gums. He has spotty mucosal tissue that must be caused by years of malnutrition. What is he so happy about?
“Ticket?”
“Sorry, my mind wandered . . .” I remove a plastic card from my back pocket and swipe it through the slot.
“Welcome aboard,” the bus driver sings. He slides open the metal gate and I climb to the top floor of this double-decker.
The bus is almost full, and just like the driver, every passenger is in an impossibly happy mood. Although their heads are down and their shoulders droop, I can spot little smirks beneath their rosy cheeks. They are all in good spirits as they sit on this rundown bus, heading to their dead-end jobs, working away their miserable lives.
What are they all so happy about?
I take a seat in the back left row and press myself against the heavily scratched window. The cool glass is refreshing in this humid vehicle; Everything else around me seems to perspire — The black leather seats stick to my forearms and the floor has a thick layer of greenish grime that stains the bottoms of my sneakers. My gag reflex engages, but I manage to hold in the puke.
I am physically repulsed by my surroundings, and yet, I don’t remember ever feeling this way before. Surely I have taken this commute a thousand times. I’ve even sat on this exact bus before. I work on an assembly line down at the food plant, and that place is equally disgusting, but it never bothered me before. Nothing about my routine is out of the ordinary, so what is it about today that is triggering my senses?
The bus slows its speed and a calm female voice rings out of the blown-out speakers:
“ARRIVING AT BLOCK 13. PLEASE WATCH YOUR STEP AS YOU EXIT.” Each and every passenger straitens their posture as they rise to their feet. They are smiling at each other now, just like the bus driver. What are they all so goddamn cheery about?
I watch as everyone exits the bus single file. In a polite fashion, they wish a good day to the driver as they pass him. I follow suit.
“Have a good day,” I mumble, forcing a smile to match.
Block 13 is at the south-east end of Sunshine city. A vaguely ominous part of town, once known as the meat-packing district, but those times have long gone. Now we process and ship Protein Packs here -- Instant food for the masses, designed to deliver all the necessary nutrients for a base-line level of operation. They’re distributed globally, and consumed by everyone, three times daily.
Twenty years ago, the government declared Protein Packs the best way to feed its lower-class residents. The meat-packing era had run its course; it was time for something new. Something cheaper. Gone are the days of slaughterhouses or organic farms. In fact, there are hardly any animals left. I certainly haven’t seen one in years, and if you believe what the StreamScreen tells you, they have all gone extinct.
“Our planet is too toxic,” a talk-show declared. “The sprawling countryside and lush woods of America has decayed into chemical dumps, and our animals are collateral damage.”
I haven’t left the city in over ten years, and I have no choice but to take their word for it. Either way, Protein Packs are much more humane than killing animals. And healthier. Or at least, that’s how they sell it to us. But don’t ask me what they’re made out of.
I arrive at the warehouse through the loading dock. I contemplate entering through the main hall, but the thought of saying good morning to the receptionists makes my stomach churn. No, this way is much safer — The dock workers are still on their morning deliveries, and there are less people to deal with here. I squeeze through rows of shipping boxes and unlatch the metal door into the assembly room.
This place is much dingier than I remembered. The machinery is rusting and mold has formed in the crevices. The bright fluorescent lights are an irritant to my eyeballs, forcing me to squint, and there’s a constant hum in the air that deadens my senses. I catch a rat scurrying around the food supply, climbing over the mixing station, and then burrowing beneath the loose floorboards.
This disgusts me, and yet, not one of the hundreds of other assembly workers seem to care. They are all beaming with happy vibes as they assume their positions on the assembly line, joyfully anticipating this labor.
I search for my place on the line. For some reason, unbeknownst to me, I can’t remember which station I’m assigned to. Gracie, one of the older employees, points me in the right direction.
“You’re on the cutter today, hun,” She says with a wink.
“Oh, right. Thanks.”
I find the cutting machine and take my place. This part of the process is where the protein paste is smoothed out into a flat sheet, and then cut into small triangular pieces. The final step before our bars are sent over to the plastic wrap station.
I fit a hair net over my scalp, roll up my sleeves, and begin my menial routine: Stopping the conveyor belt, lining up the cutting stencil, pulling the lever, retracting the lever, and then starting up the conveyor belt again.
Stop, cut, push, pull, start.
Stop, cut, push, pull, start.
Stop, cut, push, pull, start.
Thirty minutes go by and I can feel my cognitive functions deteriorating. I look around at all these rubes gleefully working away, twirling their knobs and twisting their levers. What are they all so happy about? I can’t help but question their sanity.
I step back from my station and remove my hairnet; completely unmotivated to continue. The worker next to me looks over. I can sense his anger behind the aggressive smile.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Are you crazy? You’re holding up the line.”
Suddenly, the conveyor belt locks in place and the entire assembly line is stalled out. An alert signal emits from the tops of everyone’s workstation, accompanied by a blinking red light and a cacophony of guffaws.
Like a zombified mob, everyone turns to my direction. Hundreds of happy faces glaring wide-eyed at me. They examine my dour mood and begin to murmur and gossip, as if frowning was some sort of sacrilege to them.
The main doors swing open and out comes Henry, the floor manager. He’s smiling just like the rest, but there’s sternness in his stride, like a Gestapo officer marching on laughing gas. He fixes his little cap and approaches me with both arms out, reaching for my shoulders.
“Come on, you’re going to HR,” he says with a pained grin on his face.
“No!” I blurt.
I don’t know where this behavior is coming from, but clearly, I’m not in control of myself. I dodge his oncoming grasp, slip under his right arm, and hurdle myself over the conveyor belt.
“STOP HIM!” Henry yells.
I make a run for it, full sprint towards the exit. The others stand motionless as they watch me; like a prison mate escape, I think they’re inspired. I’m darting past them so fast, it all becomes one big blur. But Henry’s shrieking voice rocks them back into submission, and they too try to stop me. Two or three of them barricade the exit with their limp bodies, huddling together like willing crash dummies. But I don’t bat an eye; I barrel towards them like a freight train and burst through the swinging doors.
The harsh morning light almost blinds me. I cover my gaze with one hand and search the courtyard. Behind me, I can faintly hear Henry yell to his superiors about the situation. He must be rallying the search team. I hang a left around the building, staying clear of any company-men on the main stretch. A few of the dock workers spot me but choose not to holler. Actually, one of them points me in the right direction — A thin crevice between the neighboring factories to the East. I nod in approval and squeeze through.
After twenty minutes of this great escape, I arrive at Block 11. This is the shopping block, a gigantic sprawl of retail stores. Every major brand has their flagship store here; their brightly lit company logos drill into my brain.
Shopping at these stores are the wannabe elite. The self-proclaimed top of the food chain, with the enviable predicament of having too much free time and not enough things to spend their disposable income on. This was their retail therapy.
I enter the crowd and do my best to fit in. I fix my hair into a perfect part, walk with a confident stride, and make a big fat smile. It doesn’t help that my clothes are covered in dirt, but I’m messy enough that it could pass for some new fashion trend. I follow the herd down Main Street, pretending to window shop as I move along. This just might work.
Behind me, a faint whirring sound grows louder. A mechanical whir that could only be one thing: A Mohauk.
Oh no . . .
A Mohauk is the latest in A.I. police technology. It was designed to autonomously patrol the city and keep tabs on the civilians, always searching for pattern discrepancies, and monitoring the public’s “well-being.” It looks like a floating metallic volley ball, about three feet in diameter, with a big blue dot for an eyeball, and a scaly antenna that runs down the back of it’s head.
This thing is more aggressive than usual. It’s darting down the street, scanning every group of shoppers as they pass. There is no doubt in my mind that a search protocol has been dished out for me, and this Mohauk is already on the hunt. I dip my chin into my neck and keep a low profile as I walk; doing my best to stay in the middle of the crowd. If only I can reach the end of the street, and make a run for it beneath the retired subway tunnels.
I arrive at the corner, trapped for a moment until the street signal changes. DON’T WALK, it says. I must oblige or I’ll stick out like a sore thumb.
The Mohauk hovers at the corner before descending upon us. Its line of sight scans the area, painting everyone’s face with red light. The scanning ends and everything appears to be normal. But
just as the street signal turns green, the Mohauk redirects towards me. I stop in my tracks. It zooms in on my face, scanning me closer. I can see a faint hud interface inside of its lens, scrolling through different names in a database. The Mohauk’s central eye turns bright red.
“HALT! IMBALANCE DETECTED. HALT! IMBALANCE DETECTED.”
The Mohauk’s voice sounds like a pre-recorded 1950s caucasian police officer. The other shoppers turn around, peering over their shoulders and pretending not to be surprised. Their judgement is palpable.
“IN VIOLATION! HALT!”
A deep feeling of fear tightens inside my stomach. The chains of slavery yank at my consciousness; one chain telling me to submit, the other to break free. I don’t know why, but I just can’t submit. Not today. Without any further hesitation, I dart in the opposite direction.
“HALT! HALT! HALT!” The Mohauk zooms after me.
I’m in full sprint through the back alleys. I weave past obstacles like a cheetah, leaping over garbage and narrowly avoiding stray shoppers. I instinctually know this place like the back of my hand, despite the fact that I don’t remember any of it at all.
I slam through a group of Korean kitchen workers that are chain vaping in a circle. They stumble back and yell expletives that I can’t understand. I glance over my shoulder to find the Mohauk still in full pursuit, flying over everything like an incoming drone attack. It’s closing in on me.
There’s a fork in the road and I make a sharp right, hitting a dead end. A newly constructed brick wall has blocked this area off. I don’t remember this. I scramble for an exit — banging on unmarked metal doors, scrambling up the brick — but I can’t manage it. I’m trapped.
The Mohauk lurks behind me. A predator closing in on its prey. The metallic spines rise from its head and the aperture of its front lens widens.
“Okay, hold on a second,” I plead. “Just wait!” I press against the brick wall, utterly cornered this time. This wicked machine hovers closer until its six inches in front of my face. Then, it speaks:
“YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF CHEMICAL IMBALANCE. NEUROTRANSMITTERS 909. PLEASE DO NOT RESIST.”
I contemplate grabbing this thing and slamming it against the pavement. I could burst its central processor and dart down the other alley, but what good will that bring me? I can’t escape this city. There’s probably an entire battalion of these things waiting for me. I’m finished.
“PLEASE OPEN YOUR MOUTH AND SAY AH.”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“PLEASE OPEN YOUR MOUTH AND SAY AH.”
My chapped lips crack as I reluctantly open my mouth.
“Ahh. . .” I hum with my mouth wide.
I can hear mechanical whizzing and whirring from inside the Mohauk’s shell. A long metal pole extends from its face and enters my mouth. A yellow liquid drips from the tip of the metal and lands on my tongue, sizzling my tastebuds.
“PLEASE SWALLOW.”
There’s a dry lump in my throat from dehydration, but I swallow. The pole detracts from my mouth and the Mohauk’s eyeball color switches back to blue.
“5-HYDROXYTRPYAMINE-SEROTONIN ADMINISTERED. IMBALANCE RESTORED. HAVE A HAPPY DAY!”
The Mohauk speeds off, returning to its scheduled patrol path. I stand motionless for a long stretch, waiting for my pounding heart to subside. I can feel my frown revert into a smile and a single tear forms in the corner of my eye.
_ _ _
I apologize, dear reader, for yesterday’s brief state of distress. I have resolved my differences with my employer and everything is as it should be.
Have a happy day!