R12

We moved through the darkness of undergroud theatre. Somewhere below us there was a stage. Back wall in the bottom had colage of video clips and photos projected across the entire lenght. Scenes were showing usual sights of commoner's entertainment, blood, tears and semen. Threading the path strewn with sand, we stepped over torn pages of illustrated magazines. Mass of people murmured and rumored from both sides. Everyone was talking to everyone else, tossing banal trivialities back and forth. Chatter was enforced by law, punishment for silence or dialogue were appalling. Father and I carried our tankards of beer, moving through the dusky atmosphere. I saw subtitles of a conversation we had back at one of our family gatherings in the old country. That's how we gamed the system. Drunk uncle was holding a great cosmic speech. I spoke as well, though I was sure that father didn't listen at all. I wasn't even sure if it was really him, slithering like a shadow and murmuring something to keep the appearance of conversation.

He just returned from the wilderness, had hard time adjusting to local customs. I proudly went on to explain to him that one of the greatest achievements of our underground society is the freedom we enjoy. For example, yesterday government website featured application to register a space ship. Of course, no one actually owned one, but system did provide the freedom to legally register such a vehicle, even offering five or six thousand in subventions for  manufacturing a space ship. I kept explaining to my father that I'm a nuclear analyst, working for the company that analyzes the mistakes employees make from the standpoing of a nuclear installation. For example, someone makes an error and then I analyze it and write a report what would happen if that same error was made in a nuclear reactor, and then this is put together with some other reports as the main product of my company. So what do you do with those reports, father asked me. I didn't know what to answer, his question was so embarassing and offensive. But then again, till few days back he was just a simple hunter from the desert, what did he know. The report is important, I said, because the guy will get laid off the work and rightfully so. Uncle's voice from the recording asked for more beer, and someone started sobbing silently, but it didn't make it to the subtitles.

I tried to make a joke, saying that now he traded real blood for movie prop blood, but even I didn't find it that funny. Reaching the top rows, we finally took our seat. Instead of tables there were long sand dunes, with benches on both sides. To my left a chubby girl with long hair was seated. In front of her, a kid that resembled a monkey kept jumping on the sand table. Across the table, just opposite my father a wrinkled granma was sitting. She noticed that it's good sign when children are energetic, but complained about lost custom of feeding kids with dog food - just in case - till they reach seven year of age.

I sensed that the girl will scratch my wrist, as it was the customary sign that she wants to sell me sex. I felt sick of it, not of the act itself, but of myself for knowing that in advance. I remembered that woman and her worried face when I mentioned her about layoffs and space ship registrations. I fel so deep into my own thoughts that I barely registered when clawed fingers scratched my wrist. I smiled and she cowered. I waved my hand to let her know I don't want what she was offering. Still, I felt sorry for her so I ordered her a drink. I turned around. Seat on my right was empty. Tall lanky pale figure approached it. She was a warrior lady, dark shiny hair combed back in tight tail, shaved around her ears. I ordered a beer for her, but she didn't even notice. Father managed to walk over to the crowded bar. Subtitles were flying by very fast. Aunt was defending all the men. She said, it takes some balls to jump on the table and speak all the bullshit that uncle was spewing. I love all women, I want to fuck you all, girls! Uncle was yelling. Kids giggled, though the laughter didn't register on the subtitles, just like the crying didn't.

Now I undersand them. I shivered. I know why they write reports. Why they communicate with tyrants by email forms. Why they get fired and kill themselves when they do. I was perfectly aware of the grotesque that surrounds us.

And I woved that I will make that space ship...