It’s been a slow news week. Rush Limbaugh wants to kick Colon Powell out of the Republican Party – but that’s hardly worth an editorial.
I am continuing work on my video internet show. Technical issues and my kids have slowed things down somewhat – but I hope to be up within a week or so.
Instead of an opinion piece, I decided to post a politically oriented short story I wrote that was originally published in the online magazine, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change.
I think, perhaps, it is relevant considering the current state of the economy and where we are heading as a species.
The Final Days of Joey Lowe
By Matthew Rockwood
Copyright 2006 by Matthew Rockwood
All Rights Reserved
It was the stench that Joey Lowe couldn’t get used to. Everything else about the job he had learned to tolerate, but not that particular stink.
Five years working for the Department of Social Services – he’d seen it all. People vomiting, people defecating, people covered with open sores, people oozing every sort and every color of bodily fluid and infectious puss, people killing each other over a space on the subway station floor they called home -- and people killing themselves. Lots of people killing themselves. “Pointless, stupid thing for a person to do,” he thought every time he was assigned to suicide clean-up duty.
Cleaning up people’s remains was one of the few things that weren’t automated in the subways. It wasn’t that it couldn’t be done, but the idea of robots disposing of dead people was still somewhat politically incorrect. Political concerns were also behind the Social Services Department being assigned the job of cleaning up after the growing number of suicides, as it was thought to be somewhat politically incorrect to assign the task to the Sanitation Department.
But after five years working for the Department of Social Services, it all may as well have been garbage to Joey Lowe. Indeed, Joey took great pride in being able stomach everything the job threw at him, and it frustrated him that he couldn’t get used to the smell. During the cleanup of a particularly gruesome subway suicide in his rookie year, he was the only one in his crew of six that didn’t throw up. In fact, he remembered feeling like treating himself to a steak dinner special at Molly’s Pub as he shoveled what was left of the woman’s brain into a body bag. It was all just trash after all. The fact that the woman’s eyeballs were still attached to the thing had no impact on Joey Lowe whatsoever.
So long as there wasn’t that particular stink that people gave off as they began to rot before they died. Fortunately, the D train had removed most of this particular homeless’s outsides and her insides had smelt comparatively rosy – otherwise the steak dinner special might have had to wait for another evening.
What made Joey talk to this particular homeless, he couldn’t consciously say. He rarely talked about anything with the homeless that didn’t have to do with the job. He usually just gave his pitch and left. Most of the time they didn’t want his help anyway. “Stupid decision not to accept social services – pointless,” he’d always say to himself. He would have liked to have talked more sometimes – if only to satisfy his curiosity as to why so many homeless chose not to accept his assistance. But the smell. That awful human stench that reeked worse than any animal (dead or alive) always kept him at a distance. So he usually just gave the standard pitch and walked away.
He had noticed this particular homeless for some time now. The homeless was a man who had staked a claim to the end seat of a bench at the one-hundred third street subway station after its former occupant drank herself to death.
He appeared to be in his late fifties (although in reality, he was probably only in his early forties) with short-cropped graying hair and a full beard. He was one of the well-put-together homeless – relatively well-groomed with a second-hand jacket and almost matching pants that made him look very professorial. Even his shoes were in relatively good shape which was rare, as good used shoes were hard to find and were often stolen as the homeless slept. And the fact that he was always reading a book (as was the case with most well-put-together homeless) added to the illusion that he wasn’t a homeless at all, but some eccentric professor from the university on his way to class – or on his way back from class -- depending upon the time of day.
And this homeless didn’t stink. Somehow, somewhere, he found the time (and found it important) to wash his clothes and to wash himself. He was really very presentable and, perhaps, this was the reason the extended conversations between the two men ensued.
At first, it was just the standard pitch by the Social Services Representative – which was politely rebuffed by the homeless man on several different occasions. Then, one day, the conversation turned to politics. Joey Lowe hadn’t meant to turn the conversation to politics. In fact, he hadn’t really meant to start a conversation at all. He had made a simple inquiry – a friendly gesture of feigned curiosity about the book the homeless was reading. Not that Joey Lowe really cared about books. Truth be told, he hated to read and had no interest whatsoever in the book. But the homeless man became very interested in the fact that he was interested in his book – and that had started the conversation.
“It’s about politics.”
If there was one thing Joey Lowe hated to think about, it was politics. And he told the homeless man so. Joey Lowe knew that anybody with any common sense could see that politics didn’t matter – that it was just the same bunch of people running against each other year after year after year -- the same bunch of people with the same speeches, the same promises – and ultimately the same broken promises. Not that anyone could do anything about the world anyway. Things were the way they were and people just had to accept that. So why worry about politics?
The homeless man listened intently to Joey Lowe’s rather emotional and sometimes rambling lecture. He stared at the Social Services Representative for a moment, and then slowly replied:
“I suppose if politics doesn’t matter to you, then you’re right – politics doesn’t matter anymore.”
Joey Lowe had been expecting an argument and was pleased that he had found a homeless with a degree of common sense that he could relate to. So he again offered social services to the homeless man, and was again politely rebuffed.
Over the next few days, Joey Lowe noticed that the homeless man was absent from his usual spot. Although it was not unusual for homeless to wander between several different locations, the subway was considered prime real estate as the tunnels provided protection from the rain and a degree of protection from the cold. More importantly, the security cameras and the constant presence of people guarded the homeless against theft of their personal belongings and attacks by teenage gangs who often killed homeless as part of their initiation rituals.
When the homeless man did eventually return, Joey Lowe noticed a slight change in his appearance. He didn’t look quite as good -- and his nice shoes had been stolen and replaced with an old, mismatched pair with no laces. Joey Lowe approached him and politely offered social services once again. After a longer than usual pause, the homeless man again declined his offer. Joey Lowe tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t. He was about to leave when the homeless man unexpectedly continued their conversation:
“But have you ever wondered why things are the way they are?”
Joey Lowe really hadn’t. He wasn’t a thinker – he was a survivor. He came to work every day and did his job and considered himself fortunate.
“Over three-hundred million people live in this country, but did you know we only need about a fifth of them to make the country work?”
That was true, Joey thought. The population problem was getting out of hand. The official government position was that the unemployment rate was under five percent – a number which had remained remarkably steady over the years even as robotic automation and artificial intelligence systems continued to displace workers.
Even Joey Lowe realized that the unemployment statistics were a lie -- mainly because they failed to count the permanently unemployed – which was now the majority of the population -- and which was in urgent need of reduction. Indeed, a large part of the Social Services Department was devoted to birth control distribution, abortion services, and sterilization services. Why everyone didn’t accept sterilization services was a mystery to Joey Lowe.
Joey Lowe had had the common sense to get himself sterilized as a teenager. There was little point in not accepting the service. Anyone with common sense understood that for most people, having children almost certainly doomed them to a life of joblessness and possibly homelessness as well. These problems were only getting worse – not better. It just wasn’t practical – and yet many people continued to breed -- the poorest, most of all.
Even Joey’s own mother had refused sterilization services after he was born. She refused the procedure for years and had to endure an abortion after her birth control failed before finally coming to her senses. Joey had sometimes wondered why he had been allowed to be born at all. His mother had been young and idealistic, he thought. Perhaps this was the problem with all young mothers.
“It reminds me of a story my mother used to read to me as a child,” the homeless man continued. “It was about a pond of turtles.”
Joey Lowe was in no mood to hear a story about turtles. But he was intrigued by this homeless man, somehow – so he smiled politely and listened.
“It seems there were these turtles. They were very happy living together in their little pond until their turtle king became ambitious and decided he wanted a higher throne. So he ordered the other turtles to pile up – one on top of the other’s back – so that he could have a higher perch on which to sit. And the king reached great heights by climbing on the backs of all the other turtles. But in the end, the turtle on the bottom finally got fed up with his king because his king ignored his suffering and the suffering of his fellow turtles. So the bottom turtle toppled the king’s throne and all the turtles returned to their happy life together in their little pond.”
Joey Lowe didn’t really understand the turtle story, but he continued to smile and nod politely.
“The problem with society today is that it has evolved to the point where the kings don’t really need the turtles anymore. And the problem with the turtles is that they’ve lost their way.”
That night, Joey Lowe had nightmares about turtles. He dreamed he was the turtle at the bottom of a growing pile of turtles and that he was suffocating.
Joey was tired from lack of sleep the following day and was relieved to see the homeless man’s bench seat empty, as he didn’t think he could endure another turtle story. The homeless man was nowhere to be found the next day either -- or the day after that. Perhaps he was dead.
Joey Lowe was almost glad he was gone. This homeless had got him thinking and he didn’t like to think. Thinking was painful and wouldn’t do him or the homeless man any good. But when the homeless man did finally return, Joey Lowe couldn’t help feeling just a little sorry for him.
The homeless man was now quite disheveled. It was obvious he had been beaten (two days ago by no more than three teenagers was Joey’s guess). He had taken care to clean himself up and hide the bruises as best he could, but it was clear that he was still in pain. When Joey Lowe approached him and gave his usual offer of social services, the homeless man took a long time to think before, in a very weak voice, declining the offer:
“I have to keep my life my own. It’s the only thing I’ve got left.”
Joey Lowe couldn’t see how his help would do anything but make things easier for the homeless man and he told him so. The homeless man responded by giving Joey Lowe the reply he was all too used to receiving:
“I would rather kill myself.”
This was a common reaction to his offer of help, and Joey Lowe never understood it. It was pure stubbornness on the part of the homeless not to accept social services when it was offered. Why kill yourself when social services were available? It was so pointless! Why risk pain -- or worse, survival and serious injury – using the crude methods of suicide available to the homeless, most of which involved jumping: jumping off buildings, jumping off bridges, jumping in front of subway trains.
It was the part of Joey Lowe’s job that he took the greatest pride in – providing social services. It was, he had often thought, the most humane job there was. Whenever a homeless would beckon him over and request social services, he would take it upon himself to provide the homeless with the best social services available anywhere.
There were some with his job who didn’t really care – that were just happy to be employed. He knew this was wrong. He understood the importance of social services and understood that social services must be given perfectly each and every time to anyone who requested them.
And Joey Lowe was the best there was. Although not required, he would always go out of his way to find the best food available, procure the very best liqueur – even locate high quality illegal substances if this was the homeless’s preference. He would wait until the homeless had consumed enough of the food and the intoxicant that he or she would drift off into a peaceful sleep. Only then would he provide social services.
It consisted of a short bang stick and a specially developed round that was designed to penetrate the human skull via a small hole in the forehead and then explode once inside. The beauty of the design was that there was no exit wound – no mess to clean up – and the recipient felt absolutely nothing. If the method of delivery were done well, the residual heat from the barrel of the bang stick could be used to cauterize the entry wound, so the process would appear from the outside to be completely bloodless. Only a small powdery burn mark on the forehead evidenced that the procedure had ever occurred. Indeed, homeless who received social services on Ash Wednesdays had often been mistaken for sleeping worshipers, and the Department would have to add an additional shift the following day to deal with the added volume of corpses.
The homeless man was angry now – almost in tears as he berated Joey Lowe:
“You come around day after day after day offering to end our misery as a service of the state! Do you understand what you are?! Do you understand the choice that you represent?! I am not living garbage! And every time we choose to value human beings as such we bring the species that much closer to extinction! If I were to choose…”
And that was the weakness of the argument, which Joey Lowe was quick to explain. There was no choice! Joey Lowe was the only real option -- the only sensible option – and both of them knew it. There was the choice to be in the world as it was – or the choice not to be. The only hope was a quick end to the suffering. That was the way things were and people just had to accept that!
The homeless man was slow to respond to Joey Lowe’s angry tirade.
“If that is what you honestly believe… If that is the only value you can see in my life… Than I suppose there really isn’t any hope – for any of us. But at least my fate will be in my own hands.”
And the homeless man bolted toward the subway tracks and jumped.
Joey Lowe had seen many suicides on the job and none had meant anything to him. They had become such a common occurrence that Joey Lowe considered them in the same category as other necessary but repulsive bodily functions, like going to the bathroom or throwing up. And yet...
Although he would never fully understand why, in that instant Joey Lowe realized that this homeless man must be saved. And he understood – if only on an instinctual level -- that the very fate of the human race depended upon his making the decision to save him.
In an instant, he was on the tracks wrestling with the homeless man – yelling at him – pleading with him – that he must not die. At first, the homeless man resisted. But as the homeless man’s eyes focused on the frantic eyes of his rescuer and his mind focused on his rescuer’s ever more desperate pleas for him to live, the homeless man also understood that he must survive.
The automated subway train was fast approaching. Both men knew that it would not stop. There were too many jumpers and keeping the trains running on time was one of the top priorities of the government. The homeless man struggled to pull himself back onto the platform, but the years of inactivity and malnutrition had taken their toll on his body and he lacked the strength to pull himself up. Joey Lowe struggled mightily to lift the homeless man back up onto the platform but he discovered, to his dismay, that his own physical condition wasn’t much better than that of the man he was trying to save.
The idea came to him in an instant:
“I’ll kneel down and you climb on my back.”
There was immediate understanding. Joey Lowe kneeled and the homeless man climbed on his back. It was just enough. The extra height brought the platform to chest level and the homeless man was just able to pull himself back onto the platform.
Now it was Joey Lowe’s turn. He quickly glanced down the tracks – the train was just emerging from the tunnel. He still had enough time to climb back up. He scrambled toward the platform. And he felt his foot slip.
It was barely a slip – just a slight stumble. And it would only cost him a fraction of a second. But he immediately understood that the lost time would be the difference between death and life. A quick scan of the area revealed no refuge from the quickly approaching train. He had expected none. Maintenance was automated. There was no longer a need for such safeguards to be included in the budgets of public works projects.
There was one chance. There had occasionally been survivors who had found refuge underneath the trains. He dove for the tracks. As soon as he hit the ground, the train was upon him – rushing over him car after car after car -- finally coming to a stop.
He had survived. He listened to the people above him going about their business. He listened to the automated messages warning passengers not to interfere with the closing doors and that the next stop would be
He looked up at the platform. Only the homeless man showed any interest in him. He thought he should probably make his way back onto the platform before the next train arrived. But he needed to rest a minute. He had time. He would just close his eyes for a minute and then he would climb back up onto the platform.
But when he opened his eyes, he was no longer lying in the subway tracks. He was somewhere else. Somewhere that smelled of that rotten smell of decaying humanity. He was in a bed in a room with many other beds all occupied and all made up with white sheets which were ripped and stained with rust colored stains. He was in the clinic. He must have hit his head… or maybe he’d just passed out from the shock.
The smell was overpowering. He needed to leave. He had to get back to work! How long had he been here? He could be replaced! He needed to leave. He tried to pull the sheet off his body but couldn’t somehow. He tried again. He could feel his hands grasping for the covers and his legs moving around underneath, but none of this was having any effect.
It was only after struggling for several minutes that the bandaged nub of his right arm emerged from underneath the sheet. He stared at it – confused because his eyes and his sense of touch were in conflict. He could feel his arm and his hand but he could plainly see that they were no longer attached to his body. And when he coaxed the nub of his other arm to emerge from beneath the sheet, he realized what had happened. Although his head and his torso had landed in the center of the tracks, his arms and his legs had not. All four of his limbs had been cleanly severed by the wheels of the train.
The homeless man stood at the head of his bed. He didn’t say anything, but words really weren’t necessary. Both men understood the sacrifice that had been made.
Joey Lowe considered his options. There were two. But as he considered the first option, he realized that he had done all he could do to keep hope alive for his dying race -- and he was content with that being his life’s achievement. As a practical matter, he had to consider that his lack of arms would make it very difficult to bath himself, and he knew that he could never get used to the stench.
So he opted for social services instead.
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