Mrs. Greenfield and the Wandering Sheep (891 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 2 on 33 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by X54 (View user info) at 2008-07-26 23:43:24 EDT
With his phone, James snapped a picture of a bowl of oatmeal, a banana and a glass of orange juice. It looked the same as the picture he'd taken every morning for the past week, ever since he'd failed his cholesterol test. He attached it to a text message titled, "Eating Right" and sent it to Mrs. Greenfield. Then he placed the oatmeal and juice back into the refrigerator. He threw out the banana, which had become brown and squishy, and made a mental note to get a replacement from the supermarket where he worked.
Drinking off the last of his first cup of coffee, he lifted four sizzling eggs from a frying pan and placed them on a plateful of bacon. His phone chimed with Mrs. Greenfield's ringtone, a triumphant bugle blast. Smiling, he thought to himself it was a good thing he didn't have one of those new olfactoryphones because his whole apartment smelled of bacon. But actually, it wouldn't have mattered because Mrs. Greenfield never called him in person. She only ever sent him recordings.
He opened his phone. A picture of Mrs. Greenfield appeared on screen, the same picture she sent him every morning: shoulder length, mousy brown hair immaculately coiffed; brown eyes that might have had just a hint of Asian in them; a healthy complexion, possibly part Latin, possibly just tan; full, smiling lips that suggested African American. She might have been thirty or she might have been fifty. Her age was as ambiguous as her ethnicity. James found her vaguely attractive, the way he'd secretly found his best friend's stepmother attractive when he was still a teenager.
"Good morning, James," said the recorded Mrs. Greenfield in her cheerful, sing-song voice. "I'm glad to see you're sticking to your new diet. I'm so proud of you!"
James belched. "Why don't you ever call me in person?"
"Do you remember what today is, James?" continued the recording.
"No, and I don't care," said James.
"It's election day! Have you decided who you're going to vote for?"
James groaned. He'd forgotten all about it.
"It looks like a very close race. Your vote could make the difference!"
"Ha," said James through a mouthful of buttery toast. "What difference?" The incumbent, President William Stafford, was being challenged by his twin brother, Senator Winston Stafford. "Are you even a real person?"
Mrs. Greenfield reminded him of the website where he should cast his vote, then signed off with a cheery, "Have a great, safe day, James!"
#
James called his girlfriend, Sam, on his way to work. Sam worked the early shift at the Sudoku factory. She was on the verge of being promoted to intermediate puzzles. "There are three slots opening up and I'm first in line," she said. "Aren't you late for work?"
"Don't worry," said James. "I know a shortcut. Do you know who you're going to vote for?"
"I like Winston. Did you hear him on the debate?"
James had not watched the debate, but he had heard the pundits' analyses. Winston was held to have won the singing portion, while William had come out on top in the dancing segment.
"Can you get me some more bacon?" said James. Sam was a fitness nut who wouldn't dream of eating bacon herself. She'd never even come close to failing a cholesterol test. She had unrestricted grocery privileges.
"Don't tell me you finished all that bacon already?" She wrinkled up her face in a combination of disgust and amazement. "Your arteries..." Her mouth suddenly filled the entire screen. "Uh-oh, gotta go," she whispered. "My boss is coming."
"See you tonight?"
But the only reply was Sam's audiovisual signature, a sultry, "Buh-bye!" accompanied by Sam blowing a kiss. She'd done her hair just like Mrs. Greenfield's for the video.
James closed his phone and gazed out the window. An electronic billboard showed a gigantic portrait of Mrs. Greenfield with the caption, "Mrs. Greenfield loves YOU! Be Safe!" Today, an additional message flashed underneath: "AND VOTE!"
James grimaced and looked away. "Manual control," he ordered.
In its motherly voice, the car's autopilot replied, "Are you sure you really want manual control?"
"Yes, I'm sure," said James, annoyed. It was only recently, since his fender-bender, that the autopilot had started asking him that. He wondered if it might eventually refuse altogether. The man who'd sold him the car had showed him how to deactivate it, by removing a special fuse from the fuse panel, which the previous owner had modified. But it was illegal to operate any vehicle without an autopilot, so James had never tried it.
The autopilot relinquished control. James zoomed around someone in the fast lane. "James," said the autopilot. "You're exceeding the speed limit!"
Yeah, yeah, thought James. He cut across the number three lane and swerved onto the off-ramp, braking hard. "James," exclaimed the autopilot. "Are you sure you don't want me to drive?"
"Nothing worse than a back seat driver," he muttered. He cut through a defunct store's parking lot, the shortcut which the route calculator still hadn't found. The gate at the back was open and led to the Safemart where he worked.
James's phone rang as he un-strapped his safety belt and removed his helmet. Mrs. Greenfield again.
"James!" said the recording. "I heard a rumor about your unsafe driving."
"Snitch," said James, kicking the car's front tire.
Vinnie, the muscular butcher, was already at work cutting meat inside. He glanced at his watch when he saw James. "What's the word, my man?"
"Safety first," said James, automatically. He placed his palm on the cutlery cabinet scanner. The door popped open. "Has Mrs. Greenfield ever called you? I mean, really called you, not just sent you a recording?"
"Naw. There's half a billion people in this country. You think she's got time for every one of us personally?"
"I guess not," said James, withdrawing his knives. "Do you think she's a real person?"
"Hell yeah!" said Vinnie, sharply. "I saw her at a rally once."
James considered this. "Were you close enough to tell it was really her?"
Vinnie sounded angry. "What are you, some kind of conspiracy nut?"
"No," said James with a nervous laugh. "Hey, who are you going to vote for?"
"Already voted," said Vinnie, relaxing again. "William's my man. See him on the debate?" He carefully set his knife down and danced a quick two-step.
A man with a pink face stood waiting at the produce counter when James took his station there. He looked about James's age. His bright pink skin and shaved head marked him as a fresh pinky. James looked away from his amiable gaze. The fresh ones always made him feel a little uncomfortable. He started to ask what he needed when Mrs. Gower pushed in front.
Mrs. Gower was a regular customer, a small, bird-like woman with thinning gray hair styled in a rather pathetic imitation of Mrs. Greenfield's. She looked pointedly at her watch.
"I've been waiting forever," she said. "You'll never make meat cutter coming in late. Do you want to stay a vegetable cutter all your life?"
James glanced at the clock, which read not quite five past nine. A green dot pasted on its center reminded everyone there was always time for safety. "No, Ma'am."
Mrs. Gower handed over two ears of corn. "I'd like the kernels cut off," she said. "My dentures..."
James looked at the pinky, who had been first in line. But the pinky just stood there rubbing his scalp and grinning.
"Of course," said James to Mrs. Gower, wondering why she didn't just buy canned or frozen corn. He donned a pair of sterile gloves and began carefully cutting away the kernels with his serrated knife. A little boy stood up in a shopping cart to watch, craning his neck to see over the counter.
The boy reminded James of his earliest memory of someone using a knife, on television. That was back when they still showed knives and even guns on television. He'd known right then he wanted to work with knives when he grew up. They were so...unsafe.
Finished with the corn, James flipped the knife in the air and caught it by the handle (a major safety violation if anyone had seen), then stabbed it into the wooden cutting board. The boy's eyes grew wide. James winked at him as he handed Mrs. Gower her bag of corn.
"Have you ever seen a real knife?" he asked the boy.
The boy shook his head.
James snatched the knife from the cutting board and walked around the end of the counter to the boy, who was still standing in the shopping cart. "Don't touch," he said, holding the knife out for him to see.
A young woman screamed and came running toward him. "No, Billy," she shouted. "It's not safe!" She grabbed the shopping cart and yanked it away from James, knocking Billy off balance. He fell straight toward James, eyes and mouth open wide in speechless surprise, grasping for anything to hang on to.
James reached out for the boy. It was a subconscious reaction, an unthinking reflex. Billy grabbed with one hand onto the blade of James's knife. Horrified, James caught him and yanked the knife away, realizing as the blade sliced the boy's tiny hand what a mistake that had been.
The boy's expression changed to relief at having been caught. He even smiled at James for an instant. Then he saw the blood and screamed so loudly that James thought his eardrums would burst. Billy's mother screamed as well and snatched him away.
James dashed back behind the counter, thinking of the first aid kit hanging on the wall by the vegetable slicer.
"Where do you think you're going," shouted Mrs. Gower, aiming her phone at him. "I saw the whole thing. It's all your fault!"
Billy's mother shrieked. "He slit your wrist!"
"No," cried James, rushing toward her with the first aid kit in one hand and the bloody knife still in the other.
She screamed, "Help!" Her face and blouse were smeared with blood. Billy was covered in it.
Vinnie rushed up. "Jesus," he said. "What the hell happened?"
"It's him," shouted Mrs. Gower, still recording James with her phone. "I saw him stab that little boy!"
"Oh my God," sobbed Billy's mother. "Won't someone please help us?"
Vinnie took a step toward James. "Back off, Man," he said. "Don't make me mess you up."
James dropped the first aid kit and backed away. "It was an accident," he stammered.
"Police! Ambulance!" shouted Mrs. Gower into her phone.
Behind her, the pinky stood quietly, the same silly grin still pasted on his face.
Vinnie took another step forward. James turned and ran for the exit at the front of the store. Pushing past indignant shoppers, he burst out the automatic door and sprinted for his car. Only then did he realize he still had the knife. Possession of a knife was a felony safety violation, even for James, a licensed knife handler, if he wasn't at work. And running with a knife was entirely unsafe.
A siren wailed in the distance, growing louder as James crossed the parking lot. He thought about throwing the knife away, but what if someone found it and hurt herself? He tossed it on the floor of his car instead.
The car started, but refused to move. "There's an emergency vehicle approaching," it said. "Don't you hear it?"
"Manual control," shouted James.
"I'm sorry," said the car. "It's not safe!"
In a panic, James reached for the glove compartment, scooped out all the junk to reveal the car's fuse panel. Locating the red fuse in the hand modified slot, he yanked it out. The car, which he'd left in reverse, lurched backwards into an elderly man's shopping cart. The man jumped away just in time, but his groceries spilled across the pavement.
James managed to hit the brakes before he ran into anything else. Glancing apologetically at the flabbergasted man, he shifted into drive, floored the accelerator and sped away. It worked! he thought, his panic turning to exhilaration. Then he saw a police cruiser with flashing lights turning into the parking lot.
Dodging astonished pedestrians, James drove around back, taking the shortcut. He blew through a traffic light, which wouldn't have been possible with the autopilot, and took the freeway west, toward the mountains. Rush hour was over and traffic was light. Seventy, eighty, ninety miles an hour he sped, faster than he'd ever gone before. He felt naked and vulnerable without his helmet and safety belt--two more violations to add to all the others--but what a thrill it was! "Window," he said, forgetting that the autopilot could no longer hear him. Manually pressing the window button, he turned his face into the sudden rush of cool air.
Of its own accord, his foot lifted from the accelerator at the sound of Mrs. Greenfield's triumphant bugle blast. The car decelerated and James cringed. He opened his phone and answered, guiltily, "Hello?"
But instead of Mrs. Greenfield, a man said, "James Anderson?"
"Yes," said James, his heart pounding.
"The Secretary of Public Safety wishes to speak to you."
The Secretary of Public Safety--Mrs. Greenfield herself! James didn't know what to say.
A voice that sounded similar to Mrs. Greenfield's came on. "James?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm here."
"Thank Goodness you're all right. Please, slow down!" She sounded frightened.
"Okay," he said. "I am. Is it really you?"
"Yes, of course it's really me. You've got me worried sick."
James could hardly believe his ears. She wasn't a recording this time. "It really is you," he said. "You never called me before."
"Oh, James. I'm sorry I can't call you more often..."
In his excitement, James interrupted. "I know. "There are half a billion of us and only one of you." He checked his phone's viewscreen, but it was blank. "Hey," he said. "Where's your picture?"
Mrs. Greenfield didn't respond right away. She seemed to be speaking to someone else on her end. "I'm sorry, James," she said. "I'm having some technical problems." Then a still picture of her, the same one she'd sent that morning, popped into view.
James watched it for a few moments to convince himself it wasn't a live feed of Mrs. Greenfield sitting very still. But when she spoke again, her picture didn't move. "Will you pull over, James? Before someone gets hurt?"
"How do I know it's really you?" said James. "You sound different than on your recordings. Why can't you show me a live feed?"
"I've got someone on the line who wants to talk to you, James. It's your girlfriend, Sam."
"Sam?" said James. "What's she got to do with this?"
"Go ahead, Sam," said Mrs. Greenfield.
Sam appeared live on screen, sitting in her cubicle. "Oh my God!" she shrieked. "I can't believe I'm actually talking to Mrs. Greenfield."
"Sam, is there something you'd like to say to James?" said Mrs. Greenfield.
Someone on Sam's end grabbed her attention. She shrieked again. "Oh my God! James--you're on the news. I can see your car on the freeway. The police are behind you!"
Someone in the background squealed. "Tell him to wave his hand out the window."
James checked his rearview mirror and saw a sea of flashing blue and red lights. Then he leaned forward to look up through the windshield. Sure enough, a news chopper hovered above and just ahead of him, flying slightly catawampus so the cameraman could get a clear shot out the side door.
"James," cried Mrs. Greenfield. "Please--pull over!"
"Look," said Sam, holding the phone's camera lens up to her computer monitor. "There you are."
James held his phone close and squinted. He could make out a dark-colored car that looked like his on the freeway, but it could have been anyone. He changed lanes, watching as the car on screen changed lanes, too. He flashed his headlights. Sam and her coworkers cheered and then were cut off.
"James!" hollered Mrs. Greenfield. "Pull over this instant. Do you understand me?"
James didn't answer. He gripped the steering wheel and set his jaw. Then he pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor.
"I'm going to count to three, James," said Mrs. Greenfield. "And if I don't see you pulled over by then you're going to be in real trouble. One!"
"I want to see a live feed," said James. "Of you."
"James, do you see the police officers behind you?"
"Show me a live feed and I'll pull over."
"Two!"
"It's not really you, is it!" cried James. He flung the phone out the window as the speedometer hit one hundred. A curve in the highway caught him by surprise and he swerved to keep from running into the center safety barrier. He overcorrected and crossed all the lanes, slammed on the brakes. The car started to skid sideways, but the anti-skid control kicked in and he got it straightened out. "Okay," he said to himself, slowing and wiping his forehead. "I'll pull over."
But before he could slow all the way down, he caught a glimpse of flashing lights closing fast in his side-view mirror. Something slammed against the back of his car, pushing the rear end to the right. The car turned sideways and leapt into the air. James gripped the steering wheel with all his might. The horizon turned upside down. His head slammed into the ceiling and his thighs hit the bottom of the steering wheel. His elbow and shoulder banged against the door. Shattered glass flew everywhere. The horizon turned right-side up again and his knees hit the dashboard. He closed his eyes tight.
At last the car stopped rolling and slid to a rest on its roof. Letting go the wheel, he wriggled through the narrow opening of the window frame, which was partially crushed. He got to his feet and limped away. An angry woman's voice shouted over a loudspeaker, "Stop!"
He stopped and looked up to see a huge, black cannon aimed at him from the back of a police pickup truck. It shot a thick jet of foamy, pink liquid that streamed through the air and hit him in the chest, sending him staggering back. He grunted and put his hands up to shield himself from it, but it was no use. The foam stuck to him like glue and made a sizzling, bubbling sound, expanding and stiffening as he tried to fend it off. He turned his back, but that only caused him to become completely encased in it. He lost his balance and fell to the ground like a giant corn dog made with bright pink batter. Only his feet protruded. He was afraid he might suffocate, but the hardened foam was porous enough that he could still breath. It had a sharp, chemical smell that made him lightheaded and nauseous. The police sirens, the wop-wop-wop of the helicopter and the whooshing cars on the other side of the freeway became distant and finally faded away altogether. His last thought before passing out was that at least now he wouldn't have to vote.
#
James shuffled down a long corridor on the second floor of the community center. At last he reached the meeting room. Everyone else was already there, sitting in plastic chairs arranged in a circle. A dozen grinning, pink-faced men all turned to look as he stepped inside. The woman in charge smiled from the far edge of the circle and called, "Welcome aboard!"
She looked a lot like Mrs. Greenfield, with her hair done the same way. She was younger and blonder than Mrs. Greenfield, though. James's heart beat just a little faster as he mumbled, "Thanks."
"I'm Miss Good," she said. "Would you care to introduce yourself to the group?"
James rubbed his fingers over the unfamiliar sandpaper stubble on his scalp. His hand glowed neon pink under the fluorescent lights. The technicians who'd removed the hardened foam from his body had told him it would take about nine months for his skin to lose the pink color caused by the foam. Shoving his hand back inside his jacket pocket, he fingered the bottle of pills he had to take now.
He looked around at the other pinkies. Some were still bright pink, like him, which meant they were new to the program. Others had faded. They were nearly finished.
The door clicked shut behind him. "My name is James," he said. "And I'm a wandering sheep."
User Reviews
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2009-05-21 10:40:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Or, if all his rebelliousness has been drummed out of him, perhaps his high-speed televised chase will have alerted some mysterious dare-devils of his potential, THEY capture HIM, and de-programme him, and then...well, I dunno, that'll be up for you to decide.
Just write more, dammit.
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2009-05-21 10:38:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
But can't he escape and join a rebellious faction of window cleaners or something?
Submitted by X54 (user info) at 2009-05-21 10:35:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Damn you Flash! Where can this story possibly go from here? With the help of Miss Good and plenty of medication, James will endure his nine month rehabilitation and be re-born a safe member of Mrs. Greenfield's utopia. He'll no longer have to contend with the urge to play with knives or suffer the guilt of succumbing to his self-destructive appetite; never again feel the need for speed. The last traces of rebellion will fade along with the pink dye in his skin and he'll become the Perfect Citizen.
Submitted by TuTs (user info) at 2009-05-21 08:59:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2009-05-21 08:36:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
WRITE MORE OF THIS, YOU FIENDISH BASTARD!
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2009-03-17 06:52:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I love this story.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2008-08-21 11:54:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Awesomesauce.
Submitted by ICO (user info) at 2008-07-31 21:22:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This should be getting more attention.
Submitted by ICO (user info) at 2008-07-30 10:57:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This is what I look for on this site if I want to actually read something.
Submitted by X54 (user info) at 2008-07-30 10:28:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Aw, you're not going to ruin my perfect score without telling me why, are you?
Submitted by Scy_fy_junkie (user info) at 2008-07-30 03:57:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2008-07-29 03:46:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I don't think that's too likely.
Submitted by locksly (user info) at 2008-07-29 01:22:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
yeah
Submitted by TheBrad (user info) at 2008-07-29 00:57:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
this was REALLY GOOD until the pic. 1.75
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-07-29 00:07:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by BobSandwich (user info) at 2008-07-28 12:25:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I loved 1984, this reminded me of it. Good form.
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2008-07-28 12:07:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2008-07-28 11:13:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by sexualchocolate1984 (user info) at 2008-07-28 10:11:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This was really good and well writen.
And it's on THIS website why? Surely there are proper sites for the actual good stuff.
Submitted by BobSandwich (user info) at 2008-07-28 09:42:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by august_sobriquet (user info) at 2008-07-28 09:23:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by The_Drake (user info) at 2008-07-28 09:17:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
WTF I'm not reading all that!
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-07-28 05:13:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
2032
Submitted by BranDo (user info) at 2008-07-28 04:56:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Ace!
Submitted by LadyPlural (user info) at 2008-07-28 00:33:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Sorry about that last bit- I was talking on the phone at the same time as I was typing, and I mixed my words up cause I cant' type and speek at teh saem time.
Duuuuur.
Submitted by LadyPlural (user info) at 2008-07-28 00:27:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I very much liked this concept. Welcome.
Submitted by HateMudkips (user info) at 2008-07-27 21:12:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This is excellent
Submitted by TechnoRatty (user info) at 2008-07-27 18:48:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
makes me wish I could read..... sigh
Submitted by The_Yellow_Dart (user info) at 2008-07-27 16:51:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Reads a lot like a Philip Dick book, very well done.
Submitted by tatersninja (user info) at 2008-07-27 02:49:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
It shot a thick jet of foamy, pink liquid that streamed through the air and hit him in the chest, sending him staggering back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I liked it, but it started getting rough to read here.
Submitted by Phallic_Cymbals (user info) at 2008-07-27 01:07:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Also, badass use of "catawampus". I haven't encountered that word before.
Submitted by Phallic_Cymbals (user info) at 2008-07-27 01:07:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Yes, but what you have to understand, X, is what if it was YOUR child that was injured in an accident? What if I wheel out the poor, devastated father of the child that died in a car accident?
Can you say to that man's face that his child SHOULD be dead because life has inherent risks? I didn't think so. Someone needs to THINK OF THE CHILDREN.
If you believe what I have written above. Kill yourself.
Beautiful writing, X, and a very valid dystopia.
Submitted by lungfish (user info) at 2008-07-27 00:43:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Very good. This is about the pussification of America, huh? I'm happy, at least, that we'll still have bacon in the future.