Dyscountopia (13 page)

Even so, those were wonderful weeks spent on Pog, sitting quietly and watching the red sunsets, taking naps that lasted six hours or more, and eating small, regular portions of hallucinogenic fruit.
 
I began to consider myself lucky after the whole shock of being fired wore off, and I was honestly content to live out my remaining years amongst the Pogs.
 
Then, one day, I was sitting on a hill, holding Lucy’s hand and watching the last crimson sliver of the sun disappear beneath the prairie, and I felt an overwhelming sense of peace wash over me.
 
I felt for a moment that my mind had left my body, that I was floating over the land on a blanket of clouds.
 
It felt like freedom.
 
Pure freedom.
 
Freedom from anxiety.
 
Freedom from doubt.
 
Freedom from responsibility.
 

And then it hit me – God’s Plan.
 
The Meaning of Life.
 
The Blueprint of the Universe.
 
It had been there in my brain all along, rattling around, but I’d never been able to tune it in until that exact moment.
 
It was like a tiny little radio antenna was activated in my mind; one that wasn’t getting a strong signal before, but, now that I was on Pog, was finally receiving the message loud and clear.
 
In that moment, Doctor, I knew everything.
 
Everything that was, everything that is, everything that will be.
 
I finally
understood
.
 
Truly and completely.
 
And that’s when I realized I had to go back to Omega-Mart, to share that message with all humankind.

So, after that, it didn’t take me long to get back here on the roof.
 
The Pogs were extremely helpful about fixing my space capsule, after I bribed them with the large gooma fruits from the highest tree branches, and they easily figured out the exact trajectory to fire me back into space so that I could return to the spot I’d left from.
 
It seems that I’d traveled through some kind of time-space flux, or rift, or something – a hole in outer space that made immediate travel possible between our two worlds.
 
The Pogs said it was a one in a trillion chance that I hit it on my way over, but now that they knew where it was they wouldn’t have any trouble firing me back through.
 
Can’t remember all the details, but they made it sound simple enough.
 
Like I said, they were clever.
 

Anyway, it was an awkward farewell, because there are at least 1000 words in any given Pog language for ‘nap’, but not a single word for ‘good-bye’.
 
The closest I could come to was ‘see you later’, so they’re probably still waiting for me to come back.

I built them a little ladder out of gooma branches before I left, so that they could still get the high fruits after I was gone – they really seemed to like that.
 
Then I crawled inside the space capsule and they fired me back through the rift.
 
And here I am, easy as pie.”
 
END OF INTERVIEW

DOCTOR’S NOTE
:
 
FURTHER OBSERVATION REQUIRED BEFORE FINAL DIAGNOSIS.
 
PRELIMINARY PATIENT ASSESSMENT – NUTTY AS A SQUIRREL.
 

****

Albert sat waiting for the Doctor to say something.
 
“Well?”

“........”
 
The Doctor stared back at him.

“Well!?”

Zayus flipped erratically through his notes, awkwardly clearing his throat.
 
“Ummm… okay, lemme see – what happened after the voices told you to leave this planet … er … Pog?”

Albert shook his head.
 
“There weren’t any voices.”

The Doctor scratched his chin.
 
“Hmmm…. Interesting.
 
What happened to them?”

“To what?”

“The voices.”

“There never were any voices,” Albert shouted.
 
“Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

The Doctor’s face turned gravely serious.
 
“Yes, I have been listening, Albert.
 
And it’s very clear what’s going on here – you have deep sexual feelings for your mother.”

“What?!?!”

The Doctor smiled.
 
“Heh-heh, I’m just screwing with you, Zim.
 
This isn’t about your mother.
 
Not really.
 
Your problem goes a lot deeper than that.
 
You’re probably schizophrenic or something.
 
That’s real bad shit, Zim.
 
Real
bad shit.”

Albert leapt up from his chair.
 
“I’m not crazy.
 
I saw what I saw and I went where I went.”

“Nobody’s saying you’re crazy, Zim,” the Doctor assured him.
 
“But the mind can play funny tricks on you.
 
This one time, when I was on peyote, I swore that I was Abraham Lincoln’s stovepipe hat, and I was magically transported back in time where I had to sit through the entire play,
Our American Cousin
, on Honest Abe’s head, all the while knowing he was gonna be shot – and I couldn’t do a thing about it because I was just a fuckin’ hat.
 
Let me tell you, Zim.
 
Three hours of hell.”

Albert shook his head.
 
“What’s wrong with you?
 
Haven’t you been listening at all?
 
I’m not talking about three hours of sitting on a dead president’s head.
 
I was up there for months – you said so yourself.
 
Where do
you
think I was?”

The Doctor shrugged.
 
“I dunno.
 
Floating around unconscious in space?”

“Without any food or water?”

The Doctor considered Albert’s ample stomach.
 
“I’m starting to see your point.”

“Look,” said Albert sternly.
 
“I have a message for the people of Omega-Mart, an important message, and I have to get back down there, and you have to help me!”
 

The Doctor looked doubtful.
 

“You promised!”

Albert’s gaze bore a hole into the Doctor’s forehead as the other man shifted uncomfortably, trying to avoid eye contact.
 
But Albert refused to waver.

The Doctor sighed.
 
“Alright, Zim.
 
I might be a shrink but I enjoy a good hallucination as much as anybody.
 
Go ahead and indulge your delusions.”

“You’ll help me?”

The Doctor nodded reluctantly.

“Then how do we get back inside?”

The Doctor shrugged.
 
“Secret passageway.”

“Bullshit.” Albert searched the Doctor’s face.
 
It showed no hint of humor. “Seriously?”

“Serious as a heart-attack,” the Doctor replied.
 
“Not many know about it – but I know people who know people who know things.
 
Know what I mean?”

Albert nodded.

“But I can’t just skip out like that.”
 
The Doctor attempted to snap his fingers and failed.
 
“I have things to take care of – business associates that rely on me.
 
I can’t just leave them in the lurch.
 
Preparations have to be made.”
 
He lifted the flap of his hut.
 
“Now, I have a very important meeting with a very important man, and I’m already late.
 
Make yourself at home until I get back.”
 
He paused.
 
“Come to think of it, why don’t you come along?
 
Maybe you’ll learn something.”

Outside, the sun had risen higher overhead, and the aroma of the baking streets spiked Albert in the face like a volleyball.
 
Rooftown had clearly been designed with no care for drainage or sewage, a fact that immediately occurred to him as he tread through a pile of filth that brought on dry heaves.
 
He searched frantically for a clean spot to scrape his shoe and, finding none, hurried to catch up with the Doctor, who was now a good distance ahead of him.

“Who are we going to see?” he asked, jogging to the doctor’s shoulder.

“Eh?
 
Oh, nobody you’d know – just a friend.
 
Have to make a quick transaction.
 
Won’t take any time at all.”

The Doctor was barely listening to Albert, deeply engrossed in a small paper book that he’d produced from his back pocket.
 
He never looked up, but never faltered as he meandered through the city’s narrow streets, navigating from memory, using some bat-like sense to avoid collision with oncoming foot traffic.
 
The painstaking scrutiny with which the Doctor studied the book made Albert feel suddenly alone.
 
And jealous, as if the Doctor had abandoned him for a new best friend.

“What sort of book is that?” he asked.

“Huh?
 
Postelwaithe’s,” Dr. Zayus grunted, licked his index finger and flipped the page.

“Whose?”

“Postelwaithe’s Guide.”

“Oh, I see.”
 
It was clear that the strain of walking and reading was more than enough to occupy the Doctor’s brain, and that he was in no need of distraction, but Albert couldn’t help asking, “Guide to what?”

The Doctor realized with grudging acceptance that Albert wouldn’t be ignored, and that, like a curious child, he would have to be placated with some answers.
 
He stopped in his tracks

“This,” said the Doctor, flapping the book in his face.
 
“Is Postelwaithe’s Guide to Nearly Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Nearly,” said the Doctor.
 
“This may come as a surprise to your civilized sensibilities, Zim, but there isn’t any currency on the roof.
 
All those dollars in your pocket are useless, just so much toilet paper.
 
But on the roof, everything is worth something, especially toilet paper.
 
Which is actually pretty hard to find.
 
So maybe those dollars are worth something….”

The Doctor seemed to have faded into a trance.

“Postelwaithe’s Guide?” Albert prompted.

“Hmmmm?
 
Oh, yes.
 
Everything on the roof is worth something, Zim, and everything can be bartered for something else, assuming you have enough of them.
 
See, here.”
 
He pointed at a random page.
 
“Five broken axe handles can be traded for one wheel-barrow, minus the wheel, which can in turn be swapped for one medium-sized, slightly used party piñata, which is exactly equivalent in value, more or less, to half a loaf of moldy wheat bread.
 
It’s all here, in the Guide.
 
See?”

Albert squinted at the page.
 
“But it’s all just junk.”

“Right,” snorted the Doctor.
 
“Junk.
 
I see.
 
Well, try smearing a little peanut butter on those dollars and eating them, why don’t you, Zim?
 
Or better yet, try filling them with candy and bringing them to your kid’s birthday party, letting him whack them around with a broken axe handle, and see what kind of thrill he gets.”
 
The Doctor stuffed the book back into his back pocket and pushed on.

Albert trailed sulkily behind him as the Doctor continued his sweaty trek through the malodorous streets of Rooftown, practically running now as if to torture Albert for his transgression.
 
He didn’t stop until he came to a twelve foot high wall of tires.

“What’s this?” asked Albert.

“Tire fort,” answered the Doctor.

It was indeed a fort made of tires, complete with ramparts, watchtowers, and barricaded gate.
 
A row of rusty shopping carts, all neatly tucked one inside the other like Russian dolls, blocked entry to the idle passer-by, as did the very large man at the gate with a shaved head and the word
BARBIE
stamped on it.
 
Albert couldn’t help but stare.