Houston, 2030 Page 4

  “So here I am, standing at the jetty like a complete dummy. Everybody around is busy: loading and offloading something. Then, one woman comes along, dressed in scrubs, like a nurse. Says: looking for someone, young lady? I started: can I find a patient? William Pendergrass? And she is: oh, who the hell would remember them by the full names! And you are bit late, darling. The patients are all off-loaded by now. I am, like: oh shite! The goddamn motor-bus! William must think nobody comes to meet him!”

  “And the nurse asks: is he ambulating? And I am, like: ambu-what? She says: can he walk by himself? I say: William has both arms amputated. His legs should be OK. And she says: both arms? Like: ‘Seven-Eleven?’ Oh, dear! And when was his surgery? I counted and said: about two weeks ago. And she: oh, two weeks? Definitely, he would be walking by himself. Likely, he is gone to the city by now, with all the other vets. Why don't you run to check at the bus station? Or he may be in a bar? With his buddies? Many go straight to a bar after the crossing. We are a dry ship!”

  “I said: but wait, how can he go? He is also blind! And she says: no arms and blind? Sure thing, this crossing, we had a couple of such around the ship. What's the name, again? William Pendergrass, you said? So it must be Billy, that poor boy from the C-deck, starboard side, aft. Yeah! I remember him all-right, although this is not my deck. So unlucky! He is what we call a ‘basket case’: totally useless, a short ‘Seven-Eleven,’ plus an NLP! I am, like: what the hell is an NLP? And she: an NLP stands for ‘no light perception,’ darling. Which means: completely blind. Who are you to him: a sister or a girlfriend? I say: a wife. And she says: oh, dear! Any children? I say: one boy. And she is, like: poor thing.”

  “So then she says: maybe, it's good you missed him at the port. And I ask: why so? And she says: because if I were you, darling, I would think twice before bringing your husband home. And I am, like: what the hell are you talking about, ma'am? And she says: well, you must consider. Let say, if your husband was simply blind, – it's a tough luck, but kinda OK. If you are blind, you can learn to live almost like normal. Can even find a job, right? But blind and totally without both arms? Holy crap! A ‘basket case’ is a ‘basket case,’ darling. I tell you, young lady: I hear such stories all the time. A wife picks a ‘basket-case’ vet. Says: such and such, this is my duty, I am a good wife, so on. Few months, maximum a year, and she dumps the poor bustard and gets herself a better deal. And the guy ends up with a psychiatric injury on top of his physical. Take it as a free medical advice: go home now, and let us send your Billy straight to the institution. The New Hope, it's… well, not too bad, considering… He will understand. Later on, you can arrange a divorce – by mail. So sad, you have a son. He will miss his Dad, for sure. But eventually, he will understand too…”

  “Exactly what the nurse told me! Funny, ah? A divorce! By mail! So I said: no institution, and no divorce! And stop calling my William a ‘basket-case!’ My husband will live a normal life. Better than anybody else! And my Davy will not miss his Dad! I don't want to be rude, ma'am, but please cut the bull-shit and show me where my husband is! So she nodded and said: see this storage shack at the end of the seawall? Go look around. That's where all the ‘basket cases’ should be offloaded by now…”

  “OK, I said: thank you, ma'am, and turned to run there. But the nurse said: wait! I said: what? And she said: one more thing. Try not to cry after you see him… like this. He… he will be hurt, understand? All the best to you and your Billy, young lady… Well, she is saying so, and I see she has tears in her eyes! And I first thought the nurse had no heart! What a goddamn job she has on the Santa Lucia!”

  The rest of the Galveston arrival story was told by William: “In our ward, or cabin, whatever, there were ten guys. Eight with one leg, one with one arm, plus me. Plus whatever remained of me, that is. The boys said: no worries, man, we will help you in the port. Yeah, right! As soon as the Dumpster was docked – puff! Everybody disappeared in seconds. Well, they surely had a good excuse. The poor bustards started talking girls, beer, Moonshine and the Grass five days before our arrival! So a nurse came. Oh, she said, why you are not dressed yet? She started putting my uniform on me. This was the first time I had it on, by the way. On the Dumpster, they gave all wounded these second-hand field uniforms. So we discovered that my set was about three sizes larger than needed. I asked: do I look ridiculous in this? And she: as the matter of fact, you do. But: never mind, soldier. Too large – is not too small. You can bring it to a tailor or sell it at a flea market, whatever. Be happy with what you have. In less than seven minutes, I was dressed, the boots on, the empty sleeves rolled up and pinned to the sides, the Purple Heart at the chest, and with a silk ribbon over my eyes. The discharge papers went into my right pocket, and my toothbrush and soap – into the left. The nurse told me what she put in. She was very fast. Lots of practice handling the armless cripples, I guess.”

  “Then, she said: let's go, soldier. I asked: where to? And she: don't ask, just go. I guessed, she pulled me through the corridor, then through the open deck, then on a gang-way, and then along some concrete pavement. Then she says: wait here. I ask: wait for what, exactly? No answer. So I ask again, louder. And somebody says: don't freaking yell, private. The nurse is gone already. So I ask: who the hell are you? And he says: one of the freaking ‘basket cases,’ man. Got a freaking bullet through my neck; now will be freaking riding in this freaking wheelchair for the freaking rest of my freaking life. It's not only me, man. There are few of us here waiting, about a half-platoon-strength all together.”

  “So I ask: waiting for bloody what? And the man says: waiting for a motor-bus. Or a truck, whatever. They will ship us to an institution, dude. The New Hope! And somebody else asks: do you know which one? And the man says: as if you freaking care. A shit-hole is a shit-hole. What's the goddamn difference? And somebody else says: there is a difference, Sarge. Some shit-holes are not quite as full of shit as the others…”

  “And then, out of nowhere: ‘private Pendergrass! Yeah, you! Why are you standing there? Get your ass here – now!’ It was Ris, impersonating some drill sergeant type. Of course I recognized her voice. She is not too good at barking commands. I turned to the sound – and walked right past her. I wasn't used to being blind yet… Ris caught me and started hugging and kissing, like mad, and mumbling something about the bloody motor-bus, and how she was late. I am standing and thinking: what a shame, I can't hug my wife anymore! And from behind me I hear that Sergeant in the wheelchair says: hey private, escaped the freaking shit-hole, you lucky bustard!”

  Clarice always treated William as nothing had happened. She managed to do things for him in unobtrusive and fun way: reach hold of his clothes to push her husband in right direction, bring a glass of water to his lips, adding a light kiss to the cheek at the same time, pull up his pants or straighten his T-shirt, as naturally as fixing her own clothes, and so on.

  Their sex life remained unimpaired in any way. The very last part of the Galveston story William entrusted only to his brother Mike, but Mike was not the type to keep such secrets for himself, and soon Mary and Mark received the full report. After meeting William in the port, Clarice could not hold it a second longer, so they had sex while waiting for the omnibus. For the lack of the better venue, the adventure took place in the public latrine behind the Galveston bus station! But they both wanted more and managed to repeat it twice before arriving to Sheldon-Res – both times at the roadside service stations, while the omnibus drivers changed the horses. With such intensity of love-making, the desired result came three weeks after William's homecoming. Clarice proudly reported to the family first, and then to all the neighbors that she ‘got the belly’ once again.

  In amazingly short time, William got used to living with no arms. He ate most of the solid food by himself, picking the pieces by his mouth directly from the plate. With the soup and other such things, he needed some assistance, but amongst Mary and the kids, there were enough helping hands anyway. To avoid bothering o
thers with dressing and undressing him, William opted to the absolute minimum of clothing: just shorts or pants, and rarely – a tank top. The only thing he had real problems with was visiting the toilet. For such visits, he was shy to ask anybody, but Clarice.

  It surely helped that Clarice was both simple-minded and super-optimistic. She would diligently pursue every possible opportunity, and no failure, however significant, made her sad. Right after William's return from the Army, she decided that his left eye should be fixed somehow. If he had better vision, she kept saying, William might qualify for prosthetic arms. Never mind the Pentagon did not want to pay for these; they would find a non-government charity. William was far less optimistic about the idea, especially after all the stuff he learned on the Dumpster, but agreed to visit a local ophthalmologist. Not something I can help with, the old doctor stated, but Clarice wanted a second opinion. A second opinion followed, then the third, then the fourth, and the fifth. She ran out of the doctors in the closest neighborhoods, so two grueling omnibus trips to the downtown were made – with the same result. Then, she continued the search by e-mails. The eye photographs taken with a smart phone were no good, so she borrowed a proper camera. Six weeks and many thousand dollars later, the final verdict was established. The surgery was theoretically possible, but since the Meltdown there were only a couple of clinics in the United States which still could do it. The cost would be in the range of twenty million dollars – the amount they were unlikely to raise in a lifetime. It would require a one-year trip to the North, with all the associated dangers and expenses. And the probability of success was twenty percent. Or less.

  Some other person would be a total wreck after learning all these hard facts, but not Clarice. Never mind, she said, and moved on looking for an alternative solution. For two months or so, she taught her husband how to get around the house and the yard, and in the immediate neighborhood. Clarice would blindfold herself, and they would wander together for hours, feeling their way with their bare feet. She often boasted that while teaching William, she became fully proficient herself and could find her way to any house along their cul-de-sac – in the midst of the darkest night, and with both eyes closed.

  Those, who got to the military through a draft – a vast majority (few men would volunteer for military careers nowadays,) were not entitled for military pensions. The vets who were missing ‘only’ one arm or one leg were offered a choice between getting a prosthetic limb fitted in one of the federal government rehab centers or filing for a lump-sum disability compensation. Most of those who lost two or more limbs were not considered suitable for prosthetic treatment and were pushed to file. William sent his compensation application in while still at the Dumpster, and nine months later he was still waiting for the reply from the Pentagon. The rumors were that the disability pay would be reduced, and would be fully taxable.

  William's disability qualified him for the Salvation Way's Change For Vets program, which required, as a very minimum, a loss of both legs. The deal was simple enough: a vet would be given an official Salvation Way red plastic bucket and sent on the street to collect donations. The revenues were fairly divided: 50% to the Salvation Way and 50% to the ‘collector.’ From these donations, the Salvation Way paid emergency stipends and served charitable lunches for the handicapped and their families. It was nothing more than a glorified begging, of course, but what else a totally armless and practically blind could do for living?

  Nearly blind, William needed a guide and Clarice cheerfully accepted the role. Besides the panhandling (sorry, ‘collection duties,’) she frequently volunteered for the Salvation Way soup kitchens: cleaned veggies, washed dishes, once in a while – helped to cook meals. William, Clarice and their little Davy got by exactly as the Salvation Way's program intended: dirt-poor, but never quite hungry. A fine balance of generosity and scarcity, ‘Social Optimum,’ as it was called now by the Welfare bureaucrats: starving military veterans' families would be unfair and cruel, but having them ‘too rich’ would be immoral and uneconomical. The limited resources must be carefully channeled away from the useless cripples!

  After half a year of such ‘gainful employment,’ nearly everybody started calling William and Clarice by the ‘small’ names, ‘Billy’ and ‘Rissy.’ Somehow, the full names did not fit to those total cripples with the Salvation Way collection buckets! One year ago, William would probably start a fistfight if anybody, even his brothers, called him such. Now he seemingly did not mind to hear it from the perfect strangers. Not only ‘hey, Billy,’ but even ‘hey, Stumps,’ and ‘hey, armless, catch your dollar!’ The young vet had wisely decided that there was no need to have regrets about his former dignity – after all, he could not start a fistfight anymore, could he?

  Now, watching how William and Clarice were snogging while drinking their tea – from the same mug, Mark thought that William's early marriage was a good luck after all. Mark's family had been blessed with a number of decisions, which looked absolutely terrible at the time of making, but paid off rather nicely in the long run. Their house was the best example. It was one of the turn of the millennium Mac-Mansions: over 3000 square feet, in a reasonably posh neighborhood, with curved driveways and vast back yards. Right after their wedding, in 2007, Mark and Mary looked for a suitable place. Mary loved the house from the first glance. Mark would rather prefer something smaller, cheaper and closer to the downtown. They had several heated arguments, and ended up buying anyway.

  It was going to be OK. Mark's FBI career progressed quickly. Mary, a college graduate, had a well-paid job with a large software consultancy (this was actually how they met – the consultancy got itself a contract for the FBI data handling system.) The ‘dream home’ purchase became a big regret less than a year later. The GFC v 1.0 came, and Mary lost her job. At the same time, their ‘sub-prime’ mortgage defaulted to a higher percent. They even could not sell the house, as the valuation was now less than a half of the original price, and there were no buyers anyway. They struggled for a full year. Only Mark's employment with the FBI saved them from being evicted.

  The things started looking better by 2010. Mary got herself a part-time job and was freelancing from home as a web-designer. They restructured their mortgage, paid most of the credit cards, and survived by a small margin. They got so confident, in fact, that a decision was made to have their first child. William was born in 2011. Mary was pregnant with Michael when the GFC v 2.0 arrived. This was their first lucky strike. Their bank went down amongst the first, taking along Mark's checking account, but also their mortgage. By the end of the second week of the crisis, Mark and Mary found themselves totally penniless, but – quite surprisingly, debt-free. Not all their neighbors got away so lucky. Many had all the assets wiped out, but still owed their credit card debts and their mortgages – now to the nationalized banks.

  Mary's ‘dream home’ turned out to be a great investment after the Meltdown. It was exactly as in the common realtors' mantra: ‘Location, Location, Location.’ Their neighborhood, conveniently situated less than a mile away from the Sheldon Reservoir and less than seven miles away from the enormous McCarty Road Landfill, did not suffer the worst of the economic and infrastructure shutdown. The Reservoir conveniently provided the residents with water, while the Landfill became the source of supplies and jobs. The extra land was also available in the area, allowing for development of the local agriculture. The residents were quick at converting their back yards and all the land down to the West Canal into vegetable beds, and managed to defend this territory from looters and squatters – at least till now.

  On the TV, Back to the Future II was still going on. So astonishing, how well Hollywood guessed the life in 2015, Mark thought while finishing his tea. The year before the Meltdown. Fancy electronic devices, huge screens, computers and robots were everywhere, exactly like in the movie. Posh, comfortable, worry-free, convenient lifestyle. Well, there were no flying cars in 2015, but apart of that, the movie makers were not too far off the mark…
But surely, Steven Spielberg and Rob Zemeckis could not imagine that in 2030 the Americans would grow their own veggies and walk to fetch water from a mile away!

  The life after the Meltdown… Was it worse than the movie time, 1985, three years after Mark was born? At least on the screen, people were much better off. Naturally, the Hollywood should not be trusted with anything like historical accuracy. The Hollywood was the Hollywood, and the movie was just a movie. Oh, the Americans were flying to the Moon back then… Wait a moment, Mark thought, the Apollo Program was even earlier, in the late sixties and early seventies! By 1985, the United States had totally abandoned the Moon idea, and started building the Space Shuttles. Then she took after the Soviets to build the International Space Station. Which, in turn, was abandoned in 2016 and ditched into Indonesian jungles six years later. Thus, the seventies and the eighties must have been pretty darn nice. Better than now, anyhow… OK, if not fifty, did they live better or worse, let say, a hundred years ago, in 1930? Mark learned about the XXth Century from serious History books, not some make-believe Hollywood movies! There was a Great Depression, and the times were rather rough. But for what he read in the books, the Depression did not look half as bad as the Meltdown had been so far, and the crisis back then was over in less than ten years. It had been fourteen since the Meltdown began. Perhaps, the Meltdown would be over too, just would take a bit longer? They would get by. Their family did much better than most, still having a good house and a strong neighborhood, in which there were no gangs, and all the kids attended school. Too bad William became a vet, but it meant Michael would be exempt from the war-zone deployments. As far as Mark knew, they did give such exemptions if somebody had a seriously disabled vet in the family… If not Mark and Mary, perhaps, their children could see the end of the Meltdown era?