Generation A (2 page)

ZACK

MAHASKA COUNTY, IOWA

Cornfields are the scariest things on the entire fucking face of the planet. I don’t mean that in a Joe-Pesci-being-clubbed-to-death-with-an-aluminum-baseball-bat kind of way, and I don’t mean it in an alien-crop-circles kind of way, and I don’t mean it in a butchering-hitchhikers kind of way. I don’t even mean it in an alien-autopsy-remains-used-as-fertilizer kind of way. I mean it in a Big-Corn-Archer Daniels Midland/Cargill/Monsanto-genetically-modified-high-fructose-ethanol kind of way. Corn is a fucking nightmare. A thousand years ago it was a stem of grass with one scuzzy little kernel; now it’s a bloated, foot-long, buttery carb dildo. And get this: cornstarch molecules are a mile long. Back in the seventies, Big Corn patented some new enzyme that chops those miles into a trillion discrete blips of fructose. A few years later these newly liberated fructose molecules assault the national food chain.
Blammo!
An entire nation becomes morbidly obese. Fact is, the human body isn’t built to withstand high-dose assaults of fructose. It enters your body and your body says,
Hmmm . . . do I turn this into shit or do I turn it into blubber? Blubber it is!
Corn turns off the shit switch. The corn industry’s response to this?
Who—us? Contributing to the obesity epidemic? No way, man. People simply started to snack more in the eighties. Now be quiet and keep drinking all that New Formula Coke.

Man, humans are a nightmare fucking species. We deserve everything we do to ourselves.

But
who
the fuck gets stung by a bee in a combine tractor in the middle of a cornfield in Mahaska County, Iowa? Me, fucking
me
.

By the way, welcome to Oskaloosa and all the many features that make Oskaloosa a terrific place to visit. There’s something for everyone here, from the historic city square with its bandstand to the George Daily Auditorium, the award-winning Oskaloosa Public Library, William Penn University and three golf courses.

I stole most of that last paragraph from the Internet. What the town’s home page forgot to mention was my father’s meth distillery (“lab” makes it sound so Cletus-&-Brandeen), which got busted by the DEA a few years back. Dad and the DEA never got along too well.

Six years ago Dad got wasted and in a moment of paranoia stole the Oskaloosa Library’s bookmobile, abandoning its carcass in the 14th hole sand trap of the legendary Edmundson Park and Golf Course. Then, in the delusion that he was destroying DEA monitoring equipment, he torched it, in the process losing his eyebrows, his driver’s licence, his freedom and his visitation rights to my two half-sisters, who live in Winnebago County.

Once out of the clink, he went right back to business and when his meth distillery was raided, the back of his head was toasted by a canister of boiling toluene. He spent six weeks in the correctional facility’s hospital unit until he got into reason able enough shape to walk around. My uncle Jay, a lawyer and Freon broker from Palo Alto, was able to post bail and had Dad flown out to California for OCD counselling. Dad picked up drug-resistant staph from a set of improperly cleaned in-flight headsets that infected his burn scar; by the time they touched down at SFO, maybe a quarter of his head was eaten up. So then we buried Dad, and Uncle Jay sold half the farm and bought me the world’s most kickass corn harvesting combine, Maizie.

Since then, Uncle Jay has sent me a reasonable paycheque in return for me not making meth (and following Daddy’s path), as well as for me doing a slightly more than half-ass job tending the corn (our family legacy), and for me to piss into an Erlenmeyer flask in front of Iowa’s creepiest Romanian lab technician (just in case I forgot the former two conditions). The urine was tested on the spot to see if I’d shaken hands with someone who ate a poppyseed bagel since the previous Tuesday; it’s not fun being treated like a disgraced Olympian athlete, but Uncle Jay made cleanliness a condition of keeping Maizie. I mean, everyone I know—hell, the whole country—is baked on drugs, clueless as dirt and morbidly obese. Normally I’d have been the perfect candidate for all three, except, 1) I can’t do drugs if I want my cheque, 2) I’m not entirely stupid and am at least curious about the world and 3) I believe corn is the devil. Try finding rice and soy grocery products in Mahaska County. Good luck. They might as well add that fact to Oskaloosa’s online civic profile:
Oskaloosa’s grocers sell a wide array of products into which manufacturers have invisibly inserted a vast family of corn-derived molecules. Should your child decide to go vegetarian or adapt any other questionable dietary lifestyle choice, our grocers and mini-marts will thwart their teen desires at every corner.

Okay, here’s the thing I didn’t mention about the raid: the DEA also found a fake-vintage saltine cracker tin containing two dead men’s index fingers. Dad had been using them to loan authenticity to a long-running cheque fraud scheme, but there was a third finger the DEA didn’t find, which I traded soon after to a DEA server maintenance girl named Carly who was running some scam of her own. In return for the finger, she gave me a killer blowjob and access to the DEA’s real-time geosynchronous surveillance satellite cameras. I could have made something long-term with Carly, except she demanded that I cut off my ponytail and donate it to Locks of Love. Farewell, Carly. Why did I want access to a real-time satellite camera? For my art, of course. Details to come shortly.

So the day I got stung by that goddam bee I was out in Maizie, a harvester so luxurious it could shame a gay cruise liner. I was naked, and why not! The ergonomically sensible operator’s cab was fully pressurized and air-conditioned; unibody cab frame, rubber mounts and sound-absorbing material reduced noise levels to near zero. All-round visibility allowed me ample time to throw on some shorts if I saw a visitor arriving on the farm.

I was also listening to some trendy band from Luxembourg or the Vatican or Lichtenstein or the Falkland Islands, one of those places so small that a distinct pie slice of its GDP derives from the sale of postage stamps to collectors and music sales by nanotrendy indie rock bands.

I had my four plasmas on 1) the NFL, 2) some whacked-out Korean game show where people dress in animal costumes to win prizes that look like inflatable vinyl alphabet letters, 3) the DEA real-time satellite view of my farm and 4) a two-way satellite link to an insomniac freak named Charles, who works in the satellite TV media-buying wing of BBDO in Singapore. Charles pays a hundred bucks an hour to watch me work nude in my cab. Did I forget to mention that? Welcome to the new economy. If I can make an extra buck by getting off some Twinkie in another hemisphere, you know what? I’m
in
. Charles, you unzip your trousers.
Zegna
trousers, and I know that about you because I read your secret online profile:
[email protected]
.

In any event, the sexy portion of Charles’s day seemed to have been completed, and the two of us were talking. Specifically, Charles was trashing the state of Iowa, branding it “The Rectangle State.” I quickly disabused him of this notion, pointing out that
Colorado
is technically the rectangle state.

Charles said, “Yes, its overall shape is rectangular,
but
if you look at a county map of Colorado, it looks like a bunch of ripped paper shreds stacked by preschoolers, whereas Iowa is divvied up into 113 neatly aligned rectangles.”

“Quit mocking my state’s spatial configuration.”

“Wake up, CornDog.”

Okay, maybe, just
maybe
I was high that day. (Have you ever found a Romanian lab technician who couldn’t be bribed?) My personal rule is that I only get high when the weather sets a new record, and, BTW, my name isn’t CornDog. It’s Zack. And I’m not ADD, I’m just Zack. ADD is a face-saving term my parents slapped on me when they figured out I wasn’t Stephen Hawking.

I hear people asking, Where is Zack’s mother? Is Zack a plucky orphan? No, Zack has an age-inappropriate future stepfather-in-the-making named Kyle who breeds genetically defective Jack Russell terriers with his mother in a shack in St. George, Utah.

Charles, meanwhile, was relentless: “CornDog, what the hell were they thinking when they were divvying up your state?”

On the DEA real-time satellite cam I was zooming in and out of a map of Iowa, shifting scale and superimposing geopolitical borders. Charles was right. Iowa
is
the Rectangle State.

More importantly, I was using the satellite to keep real-time track of that day’s masterpiece, a ten-acre cock and balls I was chopping out of the cornstalks to send as a long overdue thank-you note to God for having me be born into the cultural equivalent of one of those machines they use to shake paint in hardware stores. I didn’t have to please Uncle Jay with harvesting efficiency that year—the whole crop was contaminated with some kind of gene trace that was killing off not bees (a thing of the past) but moths and wasps. In an uncharacteristic act of citizenhood, the corn industry had decided to scrap the crop. I wasn’t too pissed about that—look at the bright side:
subsidies!
So even though the corn was in tassel and at its prettiest, I could clear those stalk fuckers whatever way I wanted.

The fateful moment occurred shortly after Charles told me about a lap dance he’d won in a pre-op tranny nightclub the week before. One of Maizie’s windows was rattling a bit, so I went and jiggled it on its hinges. I opened and closed it a few times and,
shazaam!
, that’s when I got stung.

SAMANTHA

PALMERSTON NORTH, WANGANUI, NEW ZEALAND

Right.

When I was stung I was standing in a clump of grass beside a blossoming Ramayana shrub while a small flock of Barbary doves whistled over my head. It felt like the old days, when blossoming shrubs and flowers were something we could take for granted. My particular clump of grass was at the corner of Weber Fork Road and Route 52, about as remote as it gets on the island—twenty miles in from the east coast, in the hilly eastern part of Wanganui province.

Thing is, I’d taken a slice of boring white bread from its bakery bag and had slapped it onto a small patch of yellow sandy dirt. I was standing up to photograph the slice of bread using my mobile phone.
Why would you have been doing this?
I hear you wonder. Excellent question. I was making an “Earth sandwich.”
What is an Earth sandwich?
Fair enough. It’s when you use online maps to locate the exact opposite place on the planet from you, and then hook up with someone close to that place. Then, after you mathematically figure out exact opposite GPS coordinates to within a thumb nail’s radius, you put a slice of bread on that spot, then connect via cellphone and simultaneously snap photos: two slices of bread with a planet between them. It’s an Internet thing. You make the sandwich, you post it, and maybe someone somewhere will see it, and once they’ve seen it, you’ve created art. Bingo.

The person on the other end of the earth was this girl, Simone Ferrero, who was in central Madrid at the corner of Calle Gutenberg and Calle Poeta Esteban de Villegas, at ten o’clock at night—meaning it was ten o’clock in the morning in New Zealand. All I knew of her was that we had agreed online to make a sandwich together.

The thing is, New Zealanders pretty much have the Earth sandwich game locked up. Most of the planet’s land masses are above the equator and are sandwich partners only with oceans. For example, the other side of North America’s sandwich is entirely composed of the Indian Ocean. Honolulu makes a sliver of a sandwich with Zimbabwe, but that’s all the opportunities there are for Yanks, Mexicans and Canadians.

The thing is that even while I was taking my photo and being stung, my mind was somewhere else. I’d had a strange phone call that morning from my mother. It was my one sleep-in day of the week, but I’d foolishly forgotten to turn off my mobile phone. For the six other days a week I’m up at 5:00 a.m. to be at the gym to train clients for 6:00, and on my one day of rest I picked up the phone and . . .

“Samantha, good morning.”

“Mum.”

“Did I wake you up? It’s 8:30. I thought for sure you’d be awake.”

“Mum, what’s up? Wait—I thought you were on vacation.”

“We are. We’re sixty minutes out of Darwin in a darling little cabin room, and at breakfast we had chocolate brioches and milk and—sorry, dear—I’m getting away from my message.”

“What’s your message?”

“I . . .
we
 . . . your father and I, we have some news for you.”

Yoinks. I braced myself for the worst, my brain already screaming for coffee.

“We’ve had a discussion, and we thought we should tell you something.”

Cancer? Bankruptcy?
Double yoinks. “What’s wrong?”

“Your father and I have decided that we don’t believe in anything any more.”

“You
what?
”

“What I just said.”

“Jesus, Mum, you phoned me up on a Monday morning to tell me you don’t believe in anything.”

“Yes.”

“You mean, like, God? And religion?”

“Both.”

I walked to the kitchen to flip the switch on the Braun. My parakeet, Timbo, a happy remnant of a failed relationship, was sitting on a deck chair, squawking the words “the worst toilet in Scotland” over and over and awaiting his morning treat. “Right. So why are you telling me this?”

“Well, I believe you still believe in things.”

“What do you mean,
things
?”

“God. Life after death. That sort of thing.”

“
That sort of thing?
” My sketchy belief system wasn’t something to haggle about at this time of day, and my brain was racing ass over tit trying to figure out the significance of a call like this.

I opened the window and threw Timbo an arrowroot biscuit. “So, Mum, what did you believe in before you stopped believing in things?” In the background the Braun was beginning to hiss, and I was glad that the absent bees hadn’t wiped out the planet’s coffee crop.

“Not much, really. But we’ve decided to make it official.”

“This is pretty strange, Mum.”

“No stranger than that afternoon you announced you were becoming a vegetarian.”

“I was thirteen. It was either that or an eating disorder.”

“Beliefs are beliefs.”

“Crikey
dick
, Mum, but you
don’t
believe in anything. You just said so. And I’m going to have to ask you a rude question, but are you on drugs?”

“Sam! No. We’re only taking Solon. It’s safe.”

“Solon? That stuff that makes time pass quicker?”

“No. Solon is a lovely drug and it makes my head feel calm.”

“Okay. It’s still a drug.”

My mother sighed, which was my cue to say something duti ful and reassuring, my role in the family as first-born. So I said, “It was thoughtful of you to call me and tell me properly.”

“Thank you, dear. I don’t know how your brothers will take it.”

“They won’t care. They don’t think about this kind of stuff.”

“You’re right.”

Thing is, my brothers are two fuckwits, and lately they’d been taxing my good will by hitting me up for loans and asking me to glue them back together after their never-ending streams of failed relationships with the North Island’s daggiest women. I poured myself a coffee and cut it with hot tap water. “So how do you think this is going to affect your life?”

“Probably not much. We’re not going to proselytize—if people we know still choose to believe in something, we keep our mouths shut.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Right.”

We hung up and I looked at my laptop clock. Making an Earth sandwich would take my mind off it all. I finished my coffee, showered, dressed and grabbed my asthma inhaler, and soon I was on my way to visit –40.4083°, 176.3204°.

The road eastward out of Palmy was empty.

And my conversation with Mum got me thinking about parents and how they feed your belief systems. I mean, whatever your parents do, good or bad, it allows you to do the same thing with no feelings of guilt. Dad steals cars? Go for it. Mum goes to church every Sunday? You better go too. So, when your parents decide they don’t believe in anything, you can’t rebel against them, because that’d just be rebelling against nothing. It puts you in a state of moral free float. If you copy them and believe in nothing yourself, then it’s the same thing: copying nothing equals zero. You’re buggered either way.

I wound around the rolling hills. What
did
I believe in? I’d had five different boyfriends in my twenty-six years, and the boot of each of their vehicles bore a different variation of the Christian fish. Coincidence?

First off, there was the tousle-haired Kevin, the catalogue model, who had an agape fish on his Honda. Kevin always seemed to have a religious reason for avoiding reality, most memorably not picking me up after work so he could shoot hoops with a Christian men’s group. Relationship breaker. Then there was Miles, the Deadhead atheist, whose fish had
DARWIN
embedded in its interior. After him came Hal, whose silver fish was followed by the words “
AND CHIPS
.” After Hal was Ray, who was a total wanker—I don’t know what I was thinking when I was with him. Everyone has a Ray somewhere in his or her past. Ray’s fish wasn’t witty and ironic or anything—it was just a fish. And finally there was Reid, who had a chromed fish skeleton. I thought Reid was going to be the Keeper, but Reid was generic in his willingness to avoid commitment.

Jesus, look at me labelling these guys like this. In all fairness, they’d probably label me a stuck-up gym bunny and claim that it wasn’t their duty to provide me with their version of the fish like it was shade on a hot day.

So, yes, I had a few things on my mind when I was photographing my bread slice on a sheep-stinking roadside, not the least of which was jealousy about being in the other hemisphere—the loser’s hemisphere—of being the opposite of Madrid, and sadness because the bees had vanished and therefore so many roadside flowers had all but vanished with them: the cudweed, the monkey musk, the brass buttons, the catchfly. I felt a generalized sense of wonder about the size of the planet and my useless little role atop it or under it.

And then my cellphone rang and, as I said, I got stung.

Bingo.