The Escalator

The dimming late afternoon light pried Milton’s eyes open. He had worked the night shift so long that twilight was his cue to wake up. The springs of his old bed creaked as he hoisted his feet to the floor. He could have a new bed. Every citizen was entitled after three years in the same bed to a new one, but Milton had refused. A burp began at his ribs and worked its way up to his chest. It halted there long enough to trigger a flicker of panic that he was having a heart attack and then surged up to his mouth. A jagged brown stain ran down the middle of his t-shirt. It was the bourbon he had fallen asleep with. He wore no underwear, and his flaccid penis looked like a wrinkled thumb hanging between his legs as he walked to the bathroom.

Milton showered, shaved and brushed his teeth. He swirled mouthwash over his teeth and then gargled with it. He scraped his tongue with a spoon and rinsed his mouth again. The acrid residue of the morning’s drinking was now gone. His stomach convulsed in a cramp and he put his palm on the wall to steady himself until it unwound. He put on his uniform�"or what there was of it. The employees at The Escalator had voted that only red shirts with nametags were required. Every other piece of clothing was left to the discretion of the employee. Milton chose a pair of black gabardine pants. He had stopped wearing belts because they caused his budding potbelly to boil over his waistband. 

There was still a shot left in the bourbon bottle that sat on the kitchen counter and Milton saw it as he opened the door to leave. A beautiful, perfect, gulpable quantity of alcohol that looked like liquefied amber and would go down with a pleasant sting. He kept moving. When the morning crawled in again it would be time to drink. Not before. He closed the door and descended down the stairs of his apartment building.

Milton saw the bus go by, but didn’t worry about missing it. In a few minutes another one would come. They ran regularly, making a constant thrum throughout the city. He waited at the stop and felt the last of the day’s heat being absorbed into his heavy, dark pants, which he would have realized were a bad choice for the summer if he hadn’t been so hung over.

The bus rolled around the corner. Milton smiled at the driver. An old fare- collecting machine that had been painted in a wild abstract print stood next to him, as useless as a tree stump. It was an old vehicle, but still useable and nothing went to waste here. Milton immediately saw Jacob, his fellow security guard, sitting in the middle of the bus. He sat down next to him. Jacob was deep into the news on his M-tablet. He scrolled back a few pages and held an article up for Milton to see. “Prion Diseases Cured,” read the headline. Milton felt his stomach knot. He squeezed his fists and made his face blank by loosening his lips and un-wrinkling his eyes.

“Good news,” Milton said.

“For most of us,” Jacob answered and smiled.

Milton forced himself to read the first paragraph.

The National Health and Medicine Cooperative today announced that they have at long last found a cure for the dreaded prion category of diseases, the most common of which is bovine spongiform encephalopathy or “mad cow disease,” which sparked panic last year when a sudden spate of cases appeared across the globe. Prions are misfolded proteins that wreak havoc on the nervous system impairing cognition and coordination and sometimes triggering bizarre behavior patterns or blindness and deafness. Earlier attempts at treatment were unsuccessful, but now, with state-of-the-art gene silencing technology scientists have developed a way to shut down the genetic programming for the devilish protein. In effect, they have switched it off, like an M-Tab. Plans are underway to provide community medical centers with the staff and resources needed to begin screening and treatment. Other diseases caused by prions include kuru or “laughing sickness,” Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, fatal familial insomnia, and Gerstmann-Sträussler-Scheinker Syndrome.

            “I suppose there’ll be a pluck order waiting for us,” Milton said.

            “Of course,” Jacob answered and looked at Milton with equal parts disbelief and contempt for saying something so obvious.

            Jacob went back to his M-Tab.

            Milton did a mental scan of his body. The therapist that Escalator management had referred him to taught him how to do this. He heard the feathery voice of the psychologist urging him to imagine the tense points in his body red, to focus his attention on them and to visualize the red spots fading to pink and then giving way to white, but all Milton could see was his whole body as red as a boiled lobster. He thought of the shot of bourbon and cursed himself for passing it up.

The bus turned into the crescent driveway of The Escalator and stopped at the entrance. The solar panels at the top absorbed only darkness now. Milton didn’t like to think about how he had wanted to work at The Escalator because of the building, which was functional and beautiful�"a symbol of old dichotomies being smashed. “No more false choices!” That had been the rallying cry of the revolution that had swept away the old society that was so unjust, so wasteful, so ugly. He especially didn’t like remembering how much he had loved the spiral structure that made up the east wing without imagining that it was where the women were held. He could only stand the stupidity of that when he was drunk and able to forgive or pity the good-natured oaf who had worn his skin in earlier times. There was one memory, in particular that, drunk or sober, Milton couldn’t bear. When he had interviewed for the job at The Escalator he told Maria-Theresa, the Security Manager, that the building had such intuitive curves that he could see a marble being dropped at one end of it and traveling across its expanse, uninterrupted, and only dropping off at the building’s edge. “The lines are so fluid it looks the building itself is in motion,” he had added. That was less a memory than a specter of humiliation that preyed upon him according to its own cruel whims. It lived in Milton like some kind of leg trap with no recognizable trigger.

            Milton saw the streak of red and blue shirts just as he scanned his identity badge. “C-184, pod 18,” blared the loud speaker and the building was suddenly bathed in blinking red light. Un-woman down, Maria-Theresa cried at Milton and Jacob as she ran past them with the defibrillator. Milton ran after her, and soon, despite his ungainly form he was ahead of every security guard and EMT who had dashed past him and his heart was pounding against his chest as if demanding to be let out.

            He saw her legs first. Un-Laura lay on her side, bent at the waist and knees, so her body made a “z” shape. Milton knelt down next to her and felt her pulse. It was strong and regular. He turned her head so that he could open her eyes and that’s when the folded piece of paper flowed out of her mouth in a rivulet of saliva.

            Stretcher. Make way! he heard from behind.

            Milton shoved the note in his shoe and stood up. He wiped his wet fingers on his pants and stepped aside as two EMTs placed un-Laura on the stretcher and then on the back of a cart and sped away to the infirmary, so quickly that it seemed like it was done in one movement.

            “Good work, Milt,” Maria-Theresa said.

            “You’d never know there was a gazelle in that body,” Jacob said and the rest of the crew laughed.

            “Oh, you’re here, Jacob. You were moving so slow it was like you were going backward. I was going to look for you in the Tassler wing,” Maria-Theresa replied.

            More laughter.

            “Anyone know what her problem was?” Milton asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

            “Probably just pre-pluck syndrome,” Maria-Theresa said.

            “PPS? C’mon. Do we still believe in that…?” Milton was going to say “crap,” but he realized just in time that this might offend Maria-Theresa, the woman who had treated him with such maternal kindness. “How could they know when they’re going to be plucked? We don’t even know who it’s going to be until the last minute.”

            “If you’ve got a better explanation, I’m all ears. We see it more and more. A woman just loses it and the next thing you know she’s plucked,” Maria-Theresa said.

            The crew dispersed throughout The Escalator. Milton, Maria-Theresa, and Jacob headed to the central security station in the middle of the building. When Milton opened the door, the pluck order was blinking on the Security M-Tab.

            CAUSAL EVENT: Prion cure

            ORIGINATING DEPARTMENT: National Health & Medicine Cooperative        

            PLUCK: Un-Laura

            METHOD: Incineration

            Milton stopped reading. Un-Laura would be set ablaze. He knew the procedure. He’d seen it with un-Erica last year. She had been tied to a chair, wrapped in a linen shroud, and her head doused with kerosene. Then her hair was set on fire. Milton could still remember the oddly synthetic smell of burning hair and how the fire had consumed un-Erica’s head. He remembered her jaw burning off and the teeth that were left behind for the maintenance crew to sweep up.  Jacob had joked that she looked like a giant matchstick before the fire traveled downward and turned her body to ash.

            Milton felt his arms go cold and his vision become blurry. He sat down and tried to hide his panic.

            “You okay, buddy?” Maria-Theresa asked.

            Milton opened his mouth to say yes, but couldn’t speak.

            “Here we go again. Milt�"they’re bred for this. What part of that don’t you get? These are the descendants of w****s and obstructionists. Cut the drama, man,” Jacob said.

            “Time for bed check, Jacob,” Maria-Theresa said and looked at him with hardened eyes until Jacob left the security station.

            Milton stood up and said “I’m okay. Thanks, MT.”

            “Milt, sit down again. The last thing I need is you falling over.”

            Milton wasn’t sure if that was a joke about his weight gain. He sat back down and Maria-Theresa put her hand on his shoulder.
            “Listen, Milt. You’ve got to stop taking this so hard. There’s some truth in what Jacob said. It’s not a surprise.”

            “It’s just so soon since the last one.”

            “It’s been a year. A year, Milt. When I first started here the pluck orders came down once a week�"if not more. That’s when we were still pumped from the revolution and progress was on everyone’s mind. Universal education�"un-Leslie; Diabetes cure�"un-Tessa; Wind-power�"un-Joyce.”

            Milton felt a spike of rage at Maria-Theresa.

            “It was an explosion of progress in those days, Milt.”

            Maria-Theresa looked into Milton’s eyes and said “Look, this isn’t your supervisor asking you, it’s your friend: Do you need to see the doc again?”

            Milton shook his head and said “no.”

            “I’m good,” Milton said.

            Maria-Theresa looked at him with a question in her face.

            “Seriously, I’m good, MT.”

            Milton stood up and Maria-Theresa put her hand on his shoulder. “Just one more thing,” she said, “and again�"this is coming from your friend. You’re not … involved … with anyone here are you?”

            “Involved? No. Of course not. MT, really, believe me when I say that thought has never even crossed my mind.” It hadn’t. Milton couldn’t imagine having sex with one of the un-women. They were like animals with a stupid fear in their eyes.

            “Didn’t think so. I’ve just seen it happen enough to have to ask. You know, some of these guys they fall for these girls and then the next thing you know they’re in bad shape,” Maria-Theresa said.

            “Not this guy,” Milton said and smiled.

            Maria-Theresa slapped Milton on the back.

            Milton flipped his M-Tab to “on duty” and headed out to help Jacob with the bed check. When he realized that thinking of the note in his shoe made him walk with a slight limp, he corrected his gait and picked up the pace.

* * *

The Vatican was heavy on drums, which is why Jacob loved the band. He heard their signature staccato pounding as he opened the cellar door and walked down the concrete steps.

            Someone turned down the music as soon as they caught sight of him. He heard grumbling from the men who were packed into the basement. Although he couldn’t be sure who they came from words darted out from the crowd: “Finally,” “About time,” “Dickhead.”

            Jacob cut his way through the group to the M-Tab hooked up to the massive screen.

            The room grew silent and Jacob smelled sweat and the bitter smell of beer. He pulled out a rubber band from his pocket and tied his hair, which hung to the middle of his back, into a ponytail. Then he took out the data card and plugged it into the M-Tab.

            He turned to the group of men, most of whom had sat down and were sipping drinks.

            “So, the last time we met there was some whining about a missing part of the action.  Some of you were hurt that I didn’t tape Act 1�"me telling the un-whoever she was next.”

            “You wouldn’t know if it wasn’t for us,” Chad, one of the hackers, yelled back.

            “Yeah, Chad, that’s true. But while you’re busy playing on your M-Tab figuring out when the next big announcement of progress is about to hit I’m risking my job filming these f*****g un-b*****s.”       

            Someone laughed at this.

            “You came to us,” another hacker Jacob hadn’t seen before yelled out.           

            “You think we don’t take risks?” Chad cried.        

            Jacob held up the data card. “I could just leave,” he said

            “No you can’t. Remember how much we paid you for it?” Chad answered.

            “The price can easily go up next time for you f*****g freaks,” he said.

            “Don’t think you can bleed us�"” Chad started to say

            “Let’s get on with it,” someone else in the crowd demanded.

            He plugged the card into the M-Tab and the screen came to life.

 

“It’s you. You’re next,” Jacob whispered to un-Laura. The shot was taken from behind him. His dark hair lay against his red shirt. A few grey strands were threaded in it. “Me?” she replied. “Yes, a friend told me. A friend who knows. I can’t tell you how, but trust me he’s always right. He knew when it was un-Erica’s time last year. You two were tight, weren’t you?” Un-Laura ran a shaking hand through her hair, which was so thin that a stripe of white scalp ran down the middle of her head. She wobbled a little and Jacob helped her to her bed. He covered her and left her cell. The door closed with a soft click. Un-Laura grabbed her knees and then shot up. She began walking in circles in her cell with her hands over her ears. Her chest heaved up and down. She turned out the light and began to sob. The film cut to un-Laura sitting on the toilet. She fell off it and crawled on her hands and knees to her bed. She was naked now and her eyes were febrile and her face shiny with sweat.

 

Jacob surveyed the room. The faces of the men illuminated by the

screen were dreamy and distant. He had that feeling again that they were both lost in themselves and at the same time bound together by a common delight. It was as if each one accessed alone a shared ecstasy. When Jacob looked up at the screen he saw un-Laura bent over slightly with her arms wrapped around her. She now wore the canvas dress issued to all of the women in The Escalator and an old sweater. She was let out by Milton�"that sloppy, sentimental fool who was stupid enough to believe that no one knew he was a drunk�"for her hour in the rec yard with the others on her floor. The video cut just as the door closed behind her. Jacob was getting better at editing. In fact, he thought, he was getting so good that he could demand more money the next time.

* * *

Tequila…Coke…tequila…Coke…tequila…Coke. Milton said it silently at first than out loud the drunker he got from the tequila shots and Coke chasers. This chant suddenly struck him as funny and his body folded over in a gale of laughter.  He got up and started marching around his bedroom to: Tequila…Coke…tequila…Coke… tequila…Coke. He was soon winded and collapsed on his bed in another explosion of hilarity. He was warm from the alcohol and everything around him looked pillowy, as if it was all made cotton. He sat up in his bed and looked at how neatly his white rolls of stomach fat piled on top of each other, like a stack of wax donuts. That, too, was funny.

            Milton picked up the note in his shoe. It was a drawing. Of course it was. The un-women weren’t taught to read. He was surprised at how detailed the sketch of the rec yard was. It included the pear tree in the northwest corner and it was even shaded so that the early morning light bleached the wall of the building that the yard butted up against.  An “x” was drawn in the southeast corner and above it floated a helicopter with a rope ladder dangling from its belly. Again, he was surprised at the artistry. The blades of the metal angel were shown slightly bent at the ends and the rope of the ladder was crosshatched.

            Milton took another shot. His taste buds were burned from all the drinking and the tequila was now a feeling in his mouth more than a taste. He would finish the bottle. Why not? This morning he was celebrating. He laughed until he was exhausted and fell asleep with the near-empty bottle next to him.

Milton scrubbed his body in the shower with a nailbrush until it was red. He needed to wake up and he had read that this was a good way to get the blood circulating. He stepped out of the shower and took another towel and dried his hair, even though it aggravated the hangover headache.

            The empty tequila bottle lay next to his bed. He put it in the recycling bin and then he went to the kitchen cabinet and took down the two other bottles of tequila and one of bourbon. He began pouring the alcohol down the sink. By the time he got to the last one his hands were shaking and he wanted nothing more than to sit in his bed drinking shot after calming shot. He stayed strong. Milton threw the empty bottles in the recycling and began running the water. Then he sprinkled some powdered cleanser in the sink so that its cutting odor erased any trace of the alcohol’s scent.

            He finished dressing and headed out.

            Milton passed the bus stop. He would walk to work tonight. Soon his body felt tired, but he pushed on and began to notice that his breathing became clearer. He could still turn himself around. He was young enough and probably hadn’t done any permanent damage to his body.

When he stood before The Escalator he could once again see the beauty of the building. He started to imagine what it could become and then stopped himself. Too soon, he thought. Now was the time to prepare for struggle. Maybe he wouldn’t even live to see the building made into a museum or a free housing complex or a research facility. The future was unknown, but what Milton felt sure of was that the past would no longer be a torment to him, and deliverance from his past would be enough no matter what happened.

            Milton smiled broadly at Maria-Theresa when he entered the central guard station.

            She looked at the time on the M-Tab and said “You’re early.”

            “I beat the bus.”

            “You walked? From your place?”   

            “Yup.”

            “What did you have for breakfast tonight?”

            “Actually, nothing for a change,” he said and patted his stomach.

            Milton flipped his M-Tab to “on duty” and started making his rounds.

            He stopped at un-Laura’s cell and saw her thin body curled on her bed. He shined his flashlight on her face and saw that her eyes were wide open and almost comically large for her face. He lowered the light and walked on.

             Milton kept himself busy. He knew that Maria-Theresa saw something different in him, a lightness that pleased her and she was even kinder to him because of it.                        

            When the early morning dawned it was time to take un-Laura and the others on her floor out for the morning rec time and then to breakfast. In earlier days it had been done the other way around, but Milton and the crew voted to reverse this after they noticed that the un-women were quieter at breakfast if they had some time outside first.

            Milton unlocked each cell and lined the un-women up. They went, easily as always, to the yard. Un-Laura milled around by the pear tree and chatted with a few of the other un-women. Then she ambled to the southeast corner of the yard, slowly, tying to make her movement look desultory.      

            Milton heard the slashing of the air. It was a faint and mutedly violent sound at first and then, as it shed the skin of distance, it grew louder until it was painful to Milton’s ears and churned the air of the rec yard. The force of the air pressed the women’s canvas dresses against their frames, showing their ribs. The ladder unfurled from the helicopter and the blades slowed.

            Soon, Jacob and Maria-Theresa were in the yard.

            “What the f**k?” Jacob screamed.

            “Milt, what’s going on? Talk to us,” Maria-Theresa yelled.

            He stood by the pear tree and pushed his hands into his pockets. He looked at Maria-Theresa, hoping no apology showed in his face.

            “Milt?” Maria-Theresa yelled again.

            They charged toward un-Laura and nearly at the same time two women climbed down the ladder. The top one fired two blasts from the .45 she held. The un-women scattered to the farthest edge of the yard. Some lay down; others squatted against the wall of the building.

            Maria-Theresa grabbed un-Laura around the waist and tried to wrestle her to the ground. Un-Laura used her skinny arms like truncheons and smacked Maria-Theresa’s face.

            “Calm down. Calm the f**k down,” Jacob screamed and grabbed un-Laura’s hair. She began kicking him in the shins and attacking Maria-Theresa’s knees on the backswing.

            “Milt, get the f**k over her,” Maria-Theresa bellowed.

            “What are you doing? Get your a*s over here,” Jacob shouted.

            A third shot blasted through the air. The women were now on the lowest rungs of the ladder.

            Marie-Theresa shimmied and then crumpled.

            The two women were now on the ground. Un-Laura’s face was freckled with Maria-Theresa’s blood and she began to climb the ladder.

            The woman who had fired earlier pointed her gun at Jacob.

            “No, he’s the one who warned me,” un-Laura shouted from the ladder.

            The women looked at each other.

            “Not him,” un-Laura yelled again.

            Not him? Jacob had warned her? For the first time that day, Milton felt confusion and then fear flooded his body as if he were imbibing the opposite of alcohol. 

            The woman who had killed Maria-Theresa looked to her armed companion, who nodded toward the helicopter. She ran to the ladder and started climbing up. She forced un-Laura to move and soon they were both in the craft.

            The other woman walked deliberately over to Milton with long steps. Milton noticed she had a scar on the side of her face and that, unlike what he initially thought, she was not old. He started to shake and grow lightheaded. “I’m not drinking anymore,” he blurted, too scared to realize how nonsensical this sounded.  The woman squinted her eyes and twisted her mouth into a half-smile. Milton looked around and saw the un-women dotting the rec yard, as immobile as moss in their white canvas uniforms. The woman raised her gun. Milton started to run back into the building. He made it as far as halfway down the main corridor before the woman, who was not old, fired and Milton, in the space of less than a second, felt his fear dissolve into a suddenly pristine mind.