Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to begin with this sentence: “When he was a child, he’d been told dolls were for girls.”
This
week’s story was written by Phil Yeats. In September 2021, he published The Souring
Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the
hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building
Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. Book three should be
out soon. For information about these books, or his older cosyish mysteries,
visit his website–https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/
How
Bleak is Our Future?
by
Phil Yeats
Twenty years later, he sat in a psychological officer’s cubicle in
the Department of Mental Health. Her appearance was cookie-cutter bland and her
little space had the mandated, slightly homey look. She exuded the government-sanctioned
image of a dedicated public servant, ensuring the wellbeing of every citizen. She
thrust the page with his childhood words in his face. “You remember saying
that?”
He shook his head.
“Course not. You were six years old. Most little boys said something
about different toys for boys and girls. Some even sounded like they wished
they could play with dolls, but not you. You digested our statement and answered
the implied question. What does that show?”
“That’s your business. You tell me.”
“It suggested an unusual thought process for a six-year-old. Were
my predecessors wrong to shrug it off as meaningless?” She paused for effect
before drawing his attention back to the page. “How would you respond to the
statement today?”
He stared at the meddlesome woman for several minutes. He’d grown
up in a society that insisted on a happy population that worked together.
Through his school years and during his university education, he had to get
along with his fellow students. He was now a gainfully employed adult with a
job he did well. The fruits of his labour were his contribution to the
feel-good society the political elites promoted. Why should he play their game
and pretend he was interested in others?
He looked her in the eye and told her the truth. “I’d laugh. I
have no interest in the activities of others. They can play with dolls or
hockey sticks. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“So you’re an anarchist, a believer in every man for himself.”
“Not at all. I have an important job. It’s my contribution to
society. Anything else I do, provided it does no one any harm, is my business,
and mine alone.”
She pulled forward a manila file folder, a large one with
accordion-like sides. She slid the page she’d been waving about into it. “This
is your file, an extensive dossier that documents your successes and your
failures. It shows you’ve gained an impressive array of technical skills, but
you’ve failed to apply your obvious intellectual abilities to working with
others.”
“I worked with others at the university, and I interact with my
work colleagues when necessary.”
She nodded as she tapped her forefinger on the file. “The record documents
that, but the university’s a closed environment with forced collaboration. In
the real world, you must seize the initiative. And collaboration is more than factual
communication with others. Working together produces results that are greater
than the sum of the individual contributions.”
He took several deep breaths as he corralled his anger. “I
understand the meaning of synergy, but some jobs are solitary. They don’t need
collaboration.”
“Fewer than you think. And work isn’t everything. You must try
within and outside your work environment to contribute to the interpersonal
synergies that provide the foundation for our dynamic society.” She paused,
presumably to let her message sink in, but she had no real message. She
returned to her mindless government platitudes. “It’s clear you have the
intellectual capacity to do this. Get out there, pull your weight in the
greater society. It’s a requirement, not an option. If you don’t take advantage
of the carrots we offer, we will bring out the sticks.”
He left after learning she had the authority to increase the
frequency of his forced visits from to any frequency she chose. She didn’t
explain why she might do so, or what punishments she could inflict. He wondered
about her ability to enforce her will and her willingness to do so. But he
wasn’t inclined to challenge them.
A
young woman accosted him after he stomped down the broad steps outside the Department
of Mental Health building. “Hey big Luke, how’s it going? The ogres give you a tough
time?”
Her name was Ella, but he wouldn’t have remembered her if she
hadn’t called him big Luke. Her choice of nickname was totally inappropriate. He
was shorter than average and slight, nothing like the cowboy image produced by big
Luke.
She was a popular girl at their rural high school, someone he
never spoke to. At university, in the city, he got to know her slightly. They
were in different programs but took two courses together. She occasionally
asked him questions about the courses. That’s when she started calling him big Luke,
a tease that meant nothing. She became his only friend.
After graduation, she moved on to a creative writing program, and he
fell into his current job. He hadn’t seen her for three years.
She steered him to a bench in an urban green space. “Do they have
it in for you?”
“Not sure. My first post-graduation visit was only months after I
started working. It seemed meaningless. Then one year later, they called me
back in. Another friendly visit, but I started wondering what it was all about.
Now I’m really confused.”
She took his hand in hers and gripped tighter when he tried to
pull away. Her expression was wistful. Her grip, anything but. “I always
admired how you focused on your agenda and ignored the crap going on around
you. But you’ve missed the impact of declining fertility rates on government
policy.”
He shook his head. Suggesting he didn’t understand problems
associated with declining fertility was unfair. “I keep the incubators in the
university research hospital’s neonatal unit working properly. We’re improving
the survival of premature babies, one of several government programs designed
to increase fertility. Anyway, how do fertility rates impact my visit with the thought
police?”
“You’re talking technical stuff. Our wonderful government is
obsessed with inspiration and psychological motivation. They’re trying to convince
everyone to boost the fertility rate not for pragmatic reasons like improving
the technology, or encouraging immigration, or tax incentives to make child
rearing less expensive. They want to generate a change in attitude that will
show Canada’s civilization is superior to everyone else’s.”
He stared with his mouth hanging open. “You’re joking!”
“Dead serious, and the Mental Health Department is in the
vanguard, convincing everyone it’s our moral duty to breed like rabbits.”
“She never mentioned our declining fertility rate during my
two-hour visit.”
“Not surprised. You should have been listening in on my session.
It was all about fertility rates and the wonders of motherhood.”
“What does it mean?”
“Intellectually superior women who understand their moral
responsibility will lead us into this brave new world. Your job will be to
provide support for this women-led initiative.”
“With our sanctimonious political leaders lurking in the
background. Sounds like an effing dystopia in the making.”
“Yeah, but a Canadian one led by moral superiority, with no need for guns.”
*****
The Spot Writers – Our members:
Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/
Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/
Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/
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