[Original Novella] Not Long Now, Part 7

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I resolved to be more like Freddy. What better specimen to pattern my own habits after? To that end, given his recurring mentions of Miss Alice, I asked him about her. He have me an incredulous, and slightly appalled look.

“Everybody know Miss Alice. How you not know?” I answered that I was simply very dumb, and in need of some education. He grinned ear to ear, plainly pleased by the notion. “Miss Alice is everywhere, when she want to be. She see everything, all the time.” He formed faux goggles with his hands and peered through them for emphasis.

“You mean like, through cameras?” I queried. He shook his head, subtly misshapen now that I got a good look at it. “She just see. Wherever you are. She knows if you break the rules. We tell her what we do wrong every night before sleep, ask her to forgive, and promise to do better tomorrow. She is most beautiful, nice lady of anywhere.”

I asked how he knew she was beautiful given that she wore that silk sheet draped over her. He looked thoughtful for a split second, but then suddenly scowled at me. “What you mean? What you say that for? You think Miss Alice not beautiful?” He motioned as if to stand. Despite his short stature, he looked easily able to cave my skull in should I fail to choose my next words with extreme care.

“No, of course she is beautiful” I assured him. “The most beautiful there ever was. Everybody knows that. I’m just curious. I want to learn.” He studied my face for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then, apparently satisfied that I was sincere, he went back to animatedly describing Miss Alice’s astonishing capabilities.

He made her sound like a superstition. Yet I’d seen her with my own eyes just the other night! Something was amiss. I tucked it away in the back of my mind, wiped the sweat from my forehead with a freshly greased forearm, then buckled down.

Lunch was simple meat of the sort served with every meal thus far, but on a freshly baked roll of bread. Not much to look at, but the countless hours of tedious, repetitious labor worked up such a fierce hunger that it was gone nearly as soon as I got my hands on it. The pair of boys who’d given it to me out of their wheeled cart were terribly amused.

“Finish everything on your plate” I reminded them. “That’s what Miss Alice says.” A look of sudden sobriety replaced their smirks. Both sternly nodded, then pushed the cart back into the corridor and resumed their rounds.

That works remarkably well, doesn’t it? I filed that knowledge away for future use. Once they were gone, I noted their eyes had the same dull emptiness to them as Frederick’s. Their reactions, on the other hand, were noticeably sharper.

The more of them I met, the more convinced I became that something was slightly wrong with the lot. It’s hard to tell when they’re busy, hurrying about to perform various chores. But when you get the opportunity to talk with one, even briefly, it’s immediately obvious that something is off.

It’s not just that their schooling here is insufficient, though I wouldn’t be surprised given what I’ve seen so far. Rather, their mannerisms and patterns of thought seem...rudimentary. To varying degrees, save for Agnes, everyone I’ve met here comes across as helplessly sincere, docile, and very slightly confused by anything I say to them.

As I puzzled over this, I noticed Frederick set down his tools and retreat to a drinking fountain mounted by the door to the stairwell. I joined him there soon after, beneath the sign reading “Level 2” in stenciled characters.

He lapped it up eagerly, making no effort to hide his enjoyment. I quite liked that about him. The other side of the doubled edged sword of intelligence is duplicity. Frederick appeared incapable of pretense. I expected I would always find him easy to read, to calm down when he is agitated, and all around a reliable fellow to work with. A known quantity.

A rusty pipe ran from the drinking fountain up the wall, then through it and presumably along the ceiling of the corridor adjacent to the stairwell. The one running along the outer wall of the structure in a long, gentle curve. I wondered, briefly, what lay at the end of the pipe.

That was enough to set my gears to turning. A mistake, usually. Once I’ve got ahold of some question I often find I cannot let it go until I know the answer. The same relentless, methodical curiosity which drove me to explore the service ducts the other night once again tugged at my mind.

“I left something in my room, I’ll be right back”. Before I could reach the door, Frederick seized me by the arm. “Mind your station! No work stoppage. What you leave, anyway?” I froze, not expecting to be questioned.

Behind my back, I slipped the screwdriver I’d been absentmindedly carrying up my sleeve. “It’s...my screwdriver. I think I left it there.” He ambled over to my toolbox to make sure it was missing. Then offered me the use of his. “I am fix every problem that need screw turnings. But give back to me when finish.”

Sweating a bit, I sheepishly thanked him. Good ol’ dependable Freddy. I cursed up a storm inwardly, resolving to investigate later that night, then returned to working on that damned endless sea of stationary bikes.

When the dinner bell finally rang, it was as if an angelic choir descended upon me from the Heavens. They’d have to find some way through a dozen or so floors of iron on the way, I mused. Frederick accompanied me to a wash room on the way to the dining hall, where we did our best to scrub as much of the accumulated black residue from our hands, forearms and faces as possible.

The stains persisted, merely growing fainter with the vigorous application of soap and water. At the point where my skin started to feel raw from the scrubbing, I gave up and resigned myself to it. The machine’s marked me now. Does this mean I belong to it? I suppose there are worse things than belonging somewhere.

When we arrived in the dining hall, it was ablaze with commotion. The excited chatter drowned out the pistons, gears and various other nearby mechanisms as Frederick and I took our assigned seats.

The empty plate set before me was actually sort of a relief. I didn’t much care for the usual offering and usually ate just to keep my body going. From what I gathered, we were being treated to something different tonight.

Confirming my suspicion, Miss Alice appeared at the far end of the room on that slightly elevated platform, carried by her usual servants. Then, a procession of children in white chef’s garb pushing wheeled dollies, which bore instantly recognizable decorative jugs.

Broth? Really? I couldn’t imagine it would make for a satisfying dinner. But then, if wealthy men were willing to pay a handsome price to get their hands on it, surely it must be something special. The wheeled dollies were pushed down between the rows of tables, and as the little chefs ladled out broth into bowls and handed them to us, Miss Alice began to speak.

“My dear little grease monkeys. Hard have you toiled this past year, and I would be remiss if I did not recognize it. To mark the occasion, you will tonight be permitted to sample the fruits of your labor. A generous helping, given the cost, of the product.”

The product? I didn’t realize I said it aloud until the girl across from me replied “Yes! The product! Aren’t you excited?” I answered that I didn’t know whether I should be as I’ve no idea what exactly the product is in the first place. She seemed flabbergasted, as did several nearby children I assume were eavesdropping.

“The product will make you handsome” one said. “The product will make you fit” added another. The girl who initially addressed me chimed in. “The product will change your life.” My exasperation mounted. “That’s all well and good” I muttered. “But what IS it?” All I got back was “It’s what comes first”, as per rule number one.

I tentatively blew on a spoonful of the stuff, then smelled it. Overwhelming. Intoxicating! Even after the others built it up so much, I was still impressed. Moreso by far when I took my first sip. No wonder. The fact that it was made to order exclusively for the wealthiest clientele suddenly made perfect sense.

It remains to this day the most savory, satisfying flavor I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting. I still dream of it sometimes, if I’m honest. I think the closest comparison is a soup I was served at a party, thrown by one of the more well to do host families I lived with.

A reducing process was employed to further and further enrich the broth with the addition of more and more cuts of top shelf venison. A wasteful process in my estimation, so much perfectly good meat sacrificed for what in the end amounted to perhaps six or eight litres of fluid.

The remarkable flavor achieved by that process made sense of it. As the flavor of the broth I now swirled about the interior of my mouth, reluctant to swallow something so enticing, made sense of the high price Grandfather was able to demand for it.

This is how the upper class eats, isn’t it. Not every meal of course, I knew this broth to be a delicacy for special occasions, which cost a staggering sum even by the standards of society’s wealthiest few. It served as a glimpse of the vast gulf in quality between what goes into the mouths of the moneyed elite, versus what has gone into mine for most of my life up to this point.

Pet food. Offal! What you’d find in a pig’s trough, by comparison with the mouth watering ambrosia which I now eagerly slurped down. That’s no exaggeration, though I imagined I could convince nobody of it who hasn’t savored this marvelous concoction themselves.

I slowed myself, suddenly conscious of the meager portion remaining. When would I next get a chance to partake? I cannot say how, but at the same time that it satisfied me completely, it also provoked ever-intensifying cravings for more. Not entirely unlike what I have read about Opium addiction.

I looked around. Everyone else was carefully savoring every spoonful. Smelling it, then sipping bit by bit to extract maximum pleasure from the experience. When I asked how frequently we would be served ‘the product’, a few glared at me in obvious irritation, ignored the question, then returned their attention to the aromatic concoction in their bowls.

When my own bowl was finally drained of the lovely brew, my thoughts turned of course to how I might obtain more of it as soon as possible. Hoping he’d be more forthcoming with answers, I asked Frederick on our way to the kitchen when we’d next be fed so well.

“Same day every year.” I balked. A whole year? It’d been just a few minutes since I finished mine and, though my belly bulged, I desperately wanted more. “What is the product anyway?” In retrospect don’t know why I expected anything else from him but the cryptic answer that I got.

“The product make you healthy. It make pretty girls like you. The product come first.” Another baffling non-answer, which only raised more questions the longer I thought about it. I thanked him anyway so as not to be impolite. To my surprise, the invigorating effect of the meal extended to my work in the kitchen.

Dishes seemed to wash themselves, but by way of my hands. It was all over before I knew it, a blur of rote movements which occurred without once invoking my higher brain functions. Though it seems shameful to admit, it is a great relief to exist in that state. The burden of complex thought lifted from my shoulders, only the primal pleasure of synchronized physical exertion remained.

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^{Stay tuned for Part 8!}