The Brave New World - 132 A Slice of Lime

Harold and Dave walked back home deep in thought, silently digesting what they’d seen and heard at the town hall. That wouldn’t have been possible in the old days. In the old days, walking down a street in Port Douglas meant encountering hundreds of holidaymakers. Some would be drunk, some high on drugs, and some both drunk and high on drugs. Occasionally, there would be someone who was merely hungover.

All of them were invariably loud, proudly displaying their stupidity to everyone along with their bodies: wearing as little clothing as possible was the mandatory uniform for anyone on a holiday. The combination of rowdy behavior and bare flesh adorned with tattoos and piercings often made Harold feel he was surrounded by barbarians.

“You know,” he had said to Gladys one day upon getting home, “It really makes you wonder. For hundreds and hundreds of years people sought to differentiate themselves from animals. Now it seems it’s the other way.”

“But people ARE animals, darling,” Gladys reminded him.

“From what I’ve seen and heard, calling someone an animal is an insult.”

“It can also be a compliment,” Gladys had said, making Harold sulk discreetly for the next few days while he wondered if she hadn’t been referring to his behavior in bed. He always took utmost care to be gentle when making love to his wife.

“Remember the days when streets were filled with ugly brutes?” he said to Dave, in an attempt to drown out his uncomfortable memories.

Dave smiled.

“You know that old saw about everything having a silver lining,” he said. “I’m reminded of it every morning when I wake up after sleeping through the night without being woken up at least once.”

“We used sleeping pills, myself and Gladys,” said Harold. “They really helped.”

“I don’t use sleep aids, and I’ve always told my patients not to use them,” Dave said.

“That’s a little radical. Isn’t providing relief part of your duties?”

“Every symptom is a physical manifestation of something going on inside a patient,” Dave said. “I’ve always tried to cure people, not just treat them. That meant identifying the cause of their illness or discomfort, and getting rid of it. People can’t sleep because of stress. The answer is vigorous and productive physical activity. It reduces stress and tires you out enough to fall asleep the moment you lie down.”

“Productive? Like having unprotected sex?”

Dave laughed, and said:

“That’s the sole exception. That can actually increase stress. No, by productive I mean chopping wood or doing something that yields concrete results, such as a pile of firewood or a renovated house or whatever. Where you can actually see and touch the improvement you’ve made.

“You were telling your patients to go and chop some wood?”

“Hot and cold?”

“I mean a stream or a river. You don’t want to drink from ponds and lakes out in the country. Running water is cleaner water.”

“I didn’t realize you took such a holistic approach to your work, Dave.”

“It’s the only way to approach it. But can we discuss something else? I’m really worried about the perspective of having to walk a hundred kilometres in the New World.”

“We could cheat.”

“What do you mean?”

Harold shrugged.

“We’ve been cheating from the day we founded our settlement in the New World,” he said. “And you’re asking me what I meant?”

“In practical terms only.”

“In practical terms, we don’t have to do anything at all. We just proceed with what we have. If Henry gets curious, you’ll tell him how you trekked along the coast enduring extreme hardship along the way, and then immediately attack him with accusations and recriminations about making you suffer for no reason. That will put him on the defensive right away. He won’t ask any questions, he’ll be mumbling about rules and regulations instead. Just like the time your son lit up a joint in his restaurant, before it became legal. You remember that visit of his? I didn’t get to meet him, Gladys had lost a tooth and she was having hysterics about falling apart piece by piece.”

“I remember that. And speaking of Sean, I had a long and very illuminating talk with him and Maureen last night, after he’d finished settling in.”

“Maureen?”

“His wife.”

“I see.”

“She’s a doctor, too. She’s a general physician, sort of family doctor. Sean’s a surgeon. An orthopedic surgeon. I think I’ve told you that.”

“They sound like they could be really useful in the New World.”

“You’re such an old grouch, Harry. Always taking the pessimistic view. What’s going to happen if everyone stays healthy? We’ll have to treat you for depression.”

They continued to exchange little barbs like that, the way old friends do, all the way to Harold’s house. Its front lawn had been transformed into a vegetable garden: the turf had been ripped up and replaced with corn seedlings. They’d tried planting seeds directly into the open ground but they were all gone within a day. Birds wanted to eat just as much as humans did.

They heard Gladys calling out ‘They’re here!’ to someone before they entered the house. Harold’s mouth was disfigured by a sour twist when he went inside: he was tired, he had been up from six in the morning: he wanted to be at the front of the town hall lineup that he’d been rightly anticipating. At twenty to eight, he’d found that over a dozen people had already assembled in front of the entrance.

His mood improved a little when he saw Dave’s son Sean and his wife Maureen stand up to greet him. They had good manners, such a rarity in those days. They looked to be in their middle twenties in spite of being at least a dozen years older – they had to be, with an adult kid. Sean was tall and blond and blue-eyed and generally looked the kind of doctor used to advertise analgesics. This was hugely misleading, since he specialized in cutting and breaking people’s bones before making them well.

His wife Maureen had shoulder-length wavy dark hair with curls at the tips. Her black eyes were slightly slanted, and she had a thin nose and mouth. She generally looked like the neighborhood witch whom everyone consulted, back in the Middle Ages, when they were feeling unwell, and who got burned at the stake when everyone needed someone to blame for their misfortunes. Harold wasn’t sure he’d trust her with his children, had he any; he wondered about her success as a family doctor.

He also wondered why an attractive man like Sean would marry a witch like Maureen. His life experience suggested a very special affinity in bed, most likely involving unusual sexual practices. Of course, there had to be a meeting of minds too. It wasn’t possible to stay with someone for any length of time without a meeting of minds.

He said:

“You must be Sean and Maureen. Dave has told me so much about you. Glad to meet you.”

They shook hands. Sean the bone-breaker had the appropriate grip, making Harold wince. Maureen’s handshake was like grasping a wriggly fish.

“Let me get you something to drink,” said Harold, out of force of habit, and was brought short by amused stares: his own Gladys betrayed him by raising a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

“He got up at six today,” she said. “Harry’s had a long day. He’s the one that needs a drink. You too, Dave. Come with me,” she added, throwing a meaningful look at Harold. They’d been together for a long time and he knew that look meant: I’ve got something important to tell you, in private.

He followed her into the kitchen where she made a fuss of giving him a glass of water with a thin slice of lime: to Harold’s eye, the slice of lime had been used at least once in an earlier drink. That was okay, he’d gotten used to their recycling things until they really couldn’t be recycled any more. What wasn’t okay was what Gladys said:

“We had another visitor before Sean and Maureen came over. A horrible man in a plastic jacket who said that the tax collector, Mr. Rizzo, will be paying us a visit this evening and can we make sure we’re in. Harold, is this Rizzo the same Rizzo who was in the news last year? They said he was a gangster.”

“He’s a tax collector now,” Harold told her.

“Oh my.”

“I already raised the subject with Henry. Henry Deacon, you know, the mayor. He says it’s going to be okay.”

“I don’t believe it. You don’t either, if you have any sense.”

Henry took a sip of his water. He could tell from the taste the slice of lime had been used at least twice, not just once. He said:

“Can you tell me what makes any sense nowadays, Gladys?”

Gladys was silent for a while. Then she said:

“Drink your water.”

She walked out of the kitchen.

NOTICE

This work is available to read online exclusively at Webnovel.com.

https:///book/15767933905886705

If you are reading it at a different site, it has been copied and reproduced without the author’s consent. The owner of that site is a thief.