Generation A by Douglas Coupland
Finally, Jacques phoned his employers and said he had to pack it in, which was a sad day for him, as it meant he was doomed to spend the rest of his life being tortured by the existence of other people.
Fortunately, on the online broadcast of a late-night AM talk radio show, he heard that the forestry industry was looking for people to man their lookout towers. Bingo! Jacques was on the phone immediately. The forestry people sent him an online form, he filled it out, and within a half-hour he was packing his bags to head out to a tower deep inside the national forest. Once there, he’d only have to see human beings once a month, during his grocery drop, and this suited him just fine. There were no mechanical noises of any kind—no engines or lawn mowers or barking animals—just peace, glorious peace, solitude, glorious solitude, and his books.
The first week was heaven. The only noises that occasionally irked him were the rare jets flying eight kilometres above, midday crickets, nighttime mosquitoes and, for one night only, a storm.
However, Jacques miscalculated his reading speed and finished all of the books he’d brought with him ahead of schedule. He became bored and was grateful when a supply truck showed up. He asked for a ride into town to get more books, but was informed that he wasn’t allowed to leave his tower. Panicking, he faked illness and claimed he had to go to the doctor’s office in town (next to the bookstore) and so into town he went.
His driver was anxious to get back, but Jacques dawdled as he selected many more books, and when they returned to the forest, it was in flames—a fire had laid waste to thousands of square miles of trees.
The forestry people contemplated pressing charges against Jacques, and he decided to hightail it out of the country. So he consulted the job postings on craigslist again and saw that NASA was looking for a one-way pioneer colonist to go to Mars. The pioneer would never be coming back to Earth and would have to wait for years, possibly decades, for further colonists to join him. Could a more perfect job exist? To sweeten the deal, the job came with free faster-than-light wireless, free satellite channels and every book ever written, stored in a hard drive. Woohoo!
NASA, to their credit, did extensive psychological profiling of all applicants, and Jacques turned out to be a perfect candidate. He was hired, and got to the launch pad just minutes before a letter from the forestry service’s lawyers arrived in his mailbox. Phew.
The six-month flight to Mars was enjoyable. NASA put him into hibernation during the trip through the asteroid belt. Zero gravity was a novelty, but when it came time to land, Jacques couldn’t wait. He got down to the business of enjoying being alone and reading and watching movies, the Internet and TV. He was very happy. He had no real tasks except to wait for future colonists—life was hunky-dory.
This could have gone on indefinitely were it not for the fact that Mars was populated by Martians. At first, when Jacques saw things moving outside his capsule’s window, he thought he was imagining things, but he wasn’t. Not being an easily spooked type, Jacques put on his spacesuit and walked out into the chilly Martian landscape, where he came upon three Martians who looked an awful lot like Oompa Loompas—except that they were almost spherical with protective blubber and had orange fur.
“Greetings, Earthling,” the lead Martian said.
Jacques was startled but not frightened, though he didn’t know what to say.
The Martian went on, “Sorry to utter such a cliché. We thought it would be funny, but then sometimes you don’t get the laughs you’d hoped for and you move on. So, how do you like it here on Mars?”
Jacques understood the importance of making first contact with an intelligent alien species, and he tried to be super-serious: “On behalf of the people of Earth, I come in peace.” The aliens looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” asked Jacques.
“What’s funny,” said a Martian, “is a) that you think you represent all Earthlings and b) that they wish us peace. Oh, brother.”
“So why are you here?” asked another Martian.
“I’ve been sent to colonize the planet.”
“Why on earth would you want to come here? There’s fuck-all to do. We extracted all the worthwhile minerals ages ago. The only reason we don’t go crazy is that we’re all good talkers and are able to keep ourselves amused.”
“It’s a good thing we found you,” said another Martian. “You’ll never, ever, ever, ever be bored with us around to keep you company.”
Jacques was stunned. First, there was the frustration of having rocketed all this way only to find neighbours who were way too talkative and way too intimate way too quickly. Second, these neighbours spoke ironically and had a sense of humour, traits that Jacques, like many hard-core book lovers, did not possess.
“I’m going to go back inside and have a nap,” he said. “Maybe I can come hang with you guys later on.”
“By all means. We never sleep and we love visits. The more the better.”
Jacques awoke from a shallow sleep to the sound of furry orange fists tapping on his door. He got up groggily, went to the depressurization chamber and looked out: it was one of the Martians he’d met earlier.
“Can I borrow a cup of sugar?” the Martian asked.
“What the . . . ?”
“Just kidding. Let me in. We can swap house visits. I’m doing a reno right now, so it’s a mess, but I know you can get past that.”
Jacques felt he had no choice and let the Martian in.
“Nice place. High-tech without being sterile and—ooooh—free wireless! Don’t you just hate it when hotels charge you for wireless? It’s like they don’t want you there in the first place.”
Jacques said, “I’m going to make some dinner. Are you hungry?”
“Me? No. This is our blubber-metabolizing season.” The Martian pointed to his Shar-Pei forehead. “It all goes straight to this thing,” he said, indicating a protuberance that resembled a latex prosthesis one might have seen on an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
Jacques poured a glass of water and got a jar of Tang—revolting sugar-loaded orange-flavoured breakfast crystals—from the pantry. He opened its lid and scooped out a spoonful. “Want some?”
The Martian screamed. “Good grief ! Are you trying to murder me? Let me out of here! Let me out of here!”
“Jesus, what’s your problem?”
“The problem, gringo, is that your citrus molecules are pure poison to us Martians. You could have warned me before you went and got your spoon.”
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
“Whatever. Just let me out of here.” The Martian entered the airlock. “BTW, there’s a potlatch tonight to welcome you to the neighbourhood. Try to put a good face on it—do it for the kids.”
When the Martian was gone, Jacques sat on his cot, wondering what to do now that his hard-won peace and solitude were gone again. If only somebody had told me there were neighbours on Mars!
But then he had an idea. Aha! From his bed, he removed a blanket that was part wool, part synthetic, like the ones airlines used to have in first class. He spread the blanket out on the capsule floor and then grabbed his canister of Tang from the kitchen counter and shook it all over the blanket. He took the blanket with him that night to the potlatch and gave it to the Martians. Mayhem ensued. The Martians never troubled Jacques again.
But a little while later, he received news from NASA that three fellow colonizers were on their way. Jacques heard this news in horror. NASA had betrayed him. When he protested, the woman from NASA HR said, “You haven’t been very good at keeping us up to date, Jacques. Maybe if you’d been a bit more communicative we wouldn’t have had to send more people.”
Shit. He sent back a message, “Atmosphere is poison and filled with a virus that is making me bleed out. Do not come, I repeat, do not come.” But he was sure that NASA would see through this ruse.
And so Jacques lay back on his cot. It wasn’t just one colonizer that was coming, but three.
Jacques wondered what to do. If he played dead, NASA would cut off his wireless connection and maybe sabotage his digitized books. No!
Well, he thought, at least in the meantime I have several months to figure out how I’ll murder my fellow colonizers as soon as they get here. And let’s face it—NASA is going to want to kill me, too. Better be damn quick about it. Man, what a situation: kill or be killed. Life always boils down to that in the end, doesn’t it?
The Preacher and His Mistress Slut
by Ms. Diana Beaton
They met on an Internet sex connection site. They arranged for SWNS—sex with no strings—and the ground rules were that neither had a clue who the other was, or what their powers were.
“I have to say,” said Brenda, as she searched the motel room for her pantyhose, “for SWNS, this was pretty darn hot.”
“You do this a lot?”
Brenda stared at him. “Part of the deal with SWNSing is that you don’t ask questions like that.” She leaned to look for her shoes, which were under the bed.
“But I want to know about you.”
Brenda froze. “Stop right there.”
“My name is Barry.”
“Fuck.” He’d snagged her for the moment. “Okay, Barry, why do you want to know more about me?”
“Because I think you’re special.”
“Really now.”
“Yes.”
“What makes me so special?”
“The look in your eyes near the end there. Something special was going on.”
“Bullshit.”
“Don’t believe me, then.” Barry reached for his cigarettes.
“You smoke? Nobody smokes any more.”
“I’m not nobody.”
“Very witty.”
“Want one?”
Brenda paused. “Sure. Why not.”
She lit up, knowing that she shouldn’t, that she should grab her clothes and get dressed in the parking lot if she had to. Instead, she asked, “So then, what is it you want to know about me?”
“Your name, for starters.”
“Brenda.”
“Okay, Brenda, tell me what you believe in.”
“Like God and everything?”
“Sure. If that’s where your head takes you.”
“I think God made a mistake with human beings. Nothing original there.”
“Very charming.”
“What’s with you?”
“So now you want to know about me?”
“Fuck off.”
They smoked a bit more. Brenda said, “I haven’t smoked since high school. Out by the portables. I never quite got the hang of it.”
“What year did you graduate?”
She told him.
“So we’re the exact same age.”
“Gee. Isn’t that thrilling.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “I have to go.”
“Meet again?”
Brenda paused, then said, “Okay. Same time and place, one week from now.”
“Done.”
And so for months they met once a week, and each time they did, Barry asked a little bit more about Brenda and, against her better instincts, she told him a little bit more, while he never bothered to offer much about himself in the bargain. But at least, she thought, she never told Barry her biggest secret, a secret that would change everything between them in a manner Brenda definitely didn’t want.
Slowly, gradually, the weekly tryst became the highlight of Brenda’s week. Then, one afternoon, she looked out the window and saw that the peach tree was blossoming like it was the first time they’d met. She realized that they’d been SWNSing for a full year and that it was no longer SWNSing—she was in love with him, although she didn’t think he felt the same way.
Realizing that she was in love was a pain, and few things make us feel so alone in this world as unrequited love.
Soon Brenda did what she knew she shouldn’t do: she told Barry she was in love with him. She was bracing herself for all kinds of worsts, but his reply simply shut her up: “If you want to spend more time around me, then join my flock. I’m a preacher.”
Brenda said she needed to go to the bathroom, which was really an excuse to buy a little time. She turned on the taps to make it sound like she was busy, but her full attention was on whether she could tolerate being a member of the preacher’s “flock.” You see, her biggest secret was that she was a priestess. There weren’t any rules for a situation like this.
She came out to find Barry the Preacher nearly fully dressed. She told him that yes, she would come, and he said, “I’ll see you on Sunday morning, then, at eleven.” He gave her directions and left.
Come Sunday, Brenda showed up to find a reasonably nice church that was maybe a little too close to the highway off-ramp for her taste, but it could have been worse.
Not only was Barry a preacher, but—surprise!—he had a wife and kids, a subject she’d never broached with him during their year of SWNSing. Barry’s wife was friendly in an impossible-to-hate way, and welcomed Brenda into the church, and after the service, as the congregation met downstairs in the church basement to welcome Brenda, she contemplated her bad decision-making amidst the bad lighting, the religious flashcards pinned to a corkboard and a scary upright piano.
Brenda didn’t go to meet Barry at their usual time and place that week, nor did she return to his church. After she missed the third week, Barry called her.
“How’d you get my number?”
“Don’t play dumb, Brenda. How hard is it to get someone’s number? Just come to church and our weekly session. You mean so much to me you can’t believe it. Can you find it in your heart?”
She could. She and Barry had scorching-hot mid-week pig sex, followed by Sunday church, where she pretended to be something other than who she was.
And then, one Saturday afternoon, Brenda was downtown, returning a jacket that didn’t fit properly, and outside the store she witnessed an accident—her preacher had been driving by and had hit a border collie with his brand-new GMC Yukon XL Denali—the one whose interior was impregnated with the odour of his wife’s perfume. Brenda ran and scooped the dog into her arms as the preacher got out of the truck. He said, “Brenda, relax. It’s only a dog.”
“What do you mean, ‘it’s only a dog’?”
“It’s a dog. It doesn’t have a soul, don’t worry about it.”
“It is not an it. She is a she, and she is in pain.”
The collie died in Brenda’s arms and she fell out of love with Barry. She looked up at him, her cheeks beet red, and said, “I quit.”
“You quit what?”
“Your church. You. And I bet you didn’t know that I’m a priestess.”
“Whatever. Go off and be a priestess all by yourself if you’re so mad.”
“I will. By the way, as a priestess, I get three official wishes, none of which I’ve ever used. I’m going to use one of them.”
“You do that.” Barry was climbing into the Yukon.
“Wish number one: from now on, all parents will stop loving their children.”
Barry was halfway down the crowded block, his windows automatically rolling up, when he heard these words. “What?!” He stopped his truck.
“From now on, all parents will stop loving their children.”
“Right. Yeah, well, whatever,” Barry said, and drove away.
Brenda’s first wish as a priestess came true. All the parents in the world stopped loving their children. If her love had died, Brenda thought, then other kinds of love should also die.
Nothing dramatic happened—at first. In fact, the world didn’t change much at all. At the end of day one, parents with children of all ages simply came to a series of creeping realizations:
. . . Drive you to all your play dates and sporting events? Good luck. Take a bus. Your father and I are going snorkelling.
. . . Hey, I feel like I’m babysitting somebody else’s monsters.
. . . Why on earth w
. . . Graduating? Big deal. People do it all the time.
. . . Not hungry? Fine. Don’t eat your fucking dinner. I’ve got better things to do than micromanage your food intake.
By day two, people were leaving babies on church doorsteps and every PTA meeting on earth was cancelled.
By day three, pregnant women were filling the nation’s cocktail bars. The world’s leaders abolished Mother’s Day and Father’s Day in favour of government-subsidized trips to sunny destinations.
Day four marked the golden age of babysitting as babysitters could name whatever price they wanted, and the world’s sweatshops ignored child labour laws to nary a squawk from the public.
By day five, people without children formed mobs to confront parents who had stopped caring about their children’s lives. “The law says you have to take care of your child!”; “Does it now? Fine. There are cans of strawberry- and vanilla-flavoured Carnation Instant Breakfasts in the fridge—and they can play video games until the end of time. If they start whining or complaining, they can sleep on a mattress in the basement. And thank you for minding my business for me. Now, if you’ll please fuck off, I have to go to my yoga class.”
Of course, Barry and his wife stopped loving their two children, though Barry hadn’t been expecting this. He thought of how strange a sensation it was to go from loving somebody intensely to not giving a rat’s ass about them. When it came to that week’s sermon, he found himself preaching about the importance of love to a congregation composed only of non-parents; all the people with children had locked their kids outside of their houses while they remained inside making eggs Florentine for brunch. The non-parents were angry and didn’t know what to do, because if they took charge of the children or babies themselves—without any compensation—then that made them de facto parents, and they immediately lost any capacity to love their new charges.