The Code of Happiness (3 page)

He dresses. The shredded lace on his shoe has been
replaced. A gesture of goodwill perhaps. The button to open the
sliding door is easy to find, and critically, it works. He's faced
with a narrow corridor of dank gray concrete more in keeping with
what he'd seen before. Voices echo and he takes a guess from which
direction they flow. They have an attraction and he follows his
intuition to seek them out. As he draws closer disappointment
settles. It's Ray and Po. The low moment is followed by the
recognition he no longer fears them. He's oddly focused and
impervious, a coat of Teflon. His appearance doesn't faze them
either. Ray asks how he slept, as if nothing had happened, and
switches off the monitors while Po fetches a glass of water. Ray
notes Jamie's concern and sips to prove it isn't spiked.

“We are The Source Foundation,” he says, “created by
John Charles Cavour, a billionaire philanthropist. A man who
dedicated more time to solving the mysteries of this life than
making money.”

Jamie's subdued. If he listens he'll get out of there
sooner. If he has to feign interest in this man's prattle he will.
Ray pulls a leather bound tome off a shelf. “He was a student of
mythologies and spiritual practices around the world, seeking
commonalities, the universal.” He hands it to Jamie who casts a
suspicious eye on the cover,
The Commonalities of Life
. It's
time for him to pretend. Ray draws up a chair, this one strap free.
He swivels Jamie around to watch a silent visual presentation Ray
narrates. He explains how John Charles Cavour came to the
conclusion human interaction revolved around the heart, and what
was invisible to most people—well—he'd come to the precise details
later.

Jamie has to hide his cynicism. He watches a
faltering holographic display of planets with rings emanating from
them.

“Do you know what the strongest form of energy in the
universe is?” asks Ray.

“Look it up when I get home?”

Ray ignores him.

“The torus. The sun generates a torus, planets, the
solar system, distant stars and galaxies. All generate this field
of energy. And there's more.” The flickering display shows an
androgynous human being, rings pulsating from it, specifically—and
it's here where Ray emphasizes—
the heart
. “There's more,” he
insists, “the earth used to be like this... and now...”

The visuals display random patterns around the blue
planet with Ray's explanation of electronic interference on every
continent dating back to the late twentieth century destroying the
earth's torus. He's impressed Jamie never went the embedded device
route. They double-checked, of course, while he lay asleep.

“Look at your charts Jamie. Your energy field.”

They're off the charts,” pipes in Po.

“You have an ability,” says Ray, “you don't know
of.”

They see Jamie's distrust of praise.

“Of course, your parents are from the entitled
generation and your reality doesn't mesh with theirs.” Jamie wants
to defend them. They may have heralded from that society but they
hated the generalization, the convenient tag foisted upon them
because of the few. But he doesn't defend them because the one
thing he'd known over the past fifteen years was to keep silent,
dead silent, about them and where he grew up; the farm, his guilt.
Jamie was zoning out but Ray continued to blather, how the average
human heart was sixty percent made up of neurons—the cells in our
brain—and that Jamie has an anomaly. His heart showed it was at
ninety percent, not scientifically possible. Great, Jamie thinks,
now he's a mutant.

Ray doesn't let up as he moves on to a slideshow.
Certain phrases and images linger for Jamie, one's supporting his
world view. Human beings acting in their own interest don't seem to
be doing any harm, but viewed from another angle, the random
actions collectively look like microbes attacking cells.

“Our actions are destructive,” says Ray. “Our search
for happiness has brought unintended consequences.” Rainforests
burn in front of Jamie's eyes and mega cities sprout in their place
like warts, the bottom line; the earth is dying. It's a trope he's
heard since he was in the womb but at least the visual of human
beings likened to microbes was somewhat fresh.

“
It's time for some intention,”
declares Ray.

“Don't tell me, saving the planet.” Jamie's jaded
tone washes over Ray and Po.

“Nice idea,” says Ray, “but that won't happen
unless...”

“And that's where you come in,” states Po.

Jamie tries to be polite. Somehow they missed his
point. He's not interested and doesn't realize he's being
facetious. “I may have all these extra neurons in my heart as you
say, and yes the planet's a mess, but I'm not an activist just
because I don't embed all kinds of crap under my skin. Don't you
know anything about me? I assume you've done your research?”

“You wanted a job,” says Po.

“Yes, we know about you Jamie,” with Ray’s tone
implying 'almost everything'. “We don't want you to be part of a
group, or preach to the converted.”

Jamie's distracted by Ray's eyes. They seem to be
kaleidoscopic, changing color, hypnotic. He wants to know the
extent he's being played, the degree of information they have on
him. He's prepared to continue the charade but is unaware of the
strength Ray's seduction has in his decision.

“John Charles Cavour discovered those with an
abnormally high percentage of neurons were able to generate a
different torus from the majority of us. They could transform the
state of another human being intentionally.” Ray cleverly resorts
to everyday examples; how Jamie reacted to Po, how all these
interactions happen continually—after all, Jamie didn't like Po and
look how that affected him. What if he could change Po's state so
she'd be less hostile to him? Wouldn't that be worth exploring?
What John Charles Cavour had really discovered was the mechanism by
which this occurred and how human beings—the right kind—could be
trained to deliver in the simplest terms what we recognize as
happiness to others. It was the
affectus
transfigurantes
.

“That little heart of yours, the one you ignore?
Holds the key to happiness.” Ray follows this with one last
animation, this time reversing the visuals. The torus emanating
from the human heart, healing and ultimately restoring the Earth's
own torus. It would carry more power but for Ray's voice. It's
become a blunt instrument. Acutely aware, Ray tries to inject
humour and self-mockery about the kookiness and misses the
mark.

“We need to change Jamie, but need help, a gentle
push in the right direction.”

“And in this scenario, I'm Jesus Christ fucking
superstar?”

Po wants to smack him.

“If you like,” says Ray.

Jamie's long forgotten his commitment to keep silent,
to listen, to get out of there. He's pushing buttons but equally it
is he who is being pushed and riled.

“Nine billion people?”

“Set them free.”

“And if I leave now, you're not going to stop
me?”

“You can run, Jamie. But the question is not who you
are running from, but who you are running to.”

“And If I tell people about this?”

“Who will believe you? A dentist's chair that goes
through the floor? Some quack with all these charts? That, how did
you put it? You're a Jesus Christ fucking superstar? I'm assuming
you don't want to return to the straps?”

“Fair point there Ray,” says Po. She just can't
resist.

“I'll take my chances.”

“Good luck at rising above the noise,” says Ray. “Po
will show you out.”

*****

Jamie pounds the concrete. The outdoors has replaced
the gym for exercise. It's a risk few take, vulnerable to
pollutants and the more recent spate of kidnappings. His run takes
him past giant receptacles of computer parts, tires, and
repossessed sailboats that became defunct and unsellable after the
last recession. His thoughts take on a circuitous route. As the
days have passed the abduction has taken on a malleable quality.
He's wondered if it actually happened. The night before he dreamt
he went back, but the black door remained large and shut. He was so
determined to break in, he accessed the sewers only to get lost in
tunnels of filth before waking up in a sweat. Running was good for
thoughts. They jump back and forth to the rhythm of movement, the
cracking in his ankles and feet. He's resolute. He won't be part of
any group, not just The Source Foundation. It's who he is, he
doesn't identify.
It’s
those people. Their thing
.
Jamie notices how repelled he feels at the thought of being an
activist; it's almost equal to working for XXLI. He runs faster,
running to be out of an invisible trap. Sirens and booms echo
around him and people put on masks. Most are disgusted by this man
racing against no one without protection, it's flagrant abuse.
Jamie continues oblivious and sprints beneath an electronic
billboard of a man in silhouette advertising a weekly exclusive:
Why Blaze would never run for President
. Jamie wheezes, he
has to slow to a walk. The billboard changes: EVER WANTED MORE
xxli.

*****

A lone dusty can of baked beans is on offer in the
pantry, the respite from a day inside role-playing on the
holograph. Jamie's taken a sick day from nothingness to let his
lungs recover. His ineptitude at looking after himself now stares
back at him. He can't remember the last time he cooked a fresh
meal. At the local indie mart he wanders aimlessly beneath the
under-lit LED's. The apples seem out of place, all waxy and
processed. He wouldn't know what to do with parsnips and rutabaga.
Famine food he thinks. The only problem with potato chips was the
choice, rival products from the same factories, a decision
complicated by numb taste buds and an un-hungry stomach. He knows
he needs to eat something and that's about it. He grabs a couple of
bags of super size lime chilli chips and follows with a six-pack of
local lager. Mexico, he thinks. He's never been there but he can
taste it. Ahead of him at the cashier is an old guy with an arm in
a sling. Jamie doesn't pay attention as to whether it's the left or
right. The guy's taking forever checking out his cart of lunch meat
and unripe tomatoes, so Jamie's eyes coast and settle on a pile of
oxygen masks opposite him. He picks up one to play with and puts it
down when he sees the XXLI sign,
unpronounceable but helping you
breathe
.

Jamie watches the old guy struggle across the road,
he's thin and fragile, a wafer of fine crystal. People walk past
him as if he doesn't exist. It seems a game, this criss-crossing of
the street to avoid the man, the featureless blocking out the
aging—don't see it, you won't catch it.

The voyeur Jamie doesn't know how many times his mind
repeated it was wrong before it finally registered, but he finds
himself next to the man who dons a worn brown suit. He wants to ask
how he managed to get his arm in a sling but that would be rude, so
he offers to help. The man snaps back catching Jamie off guard,
telling him to keep away. It's a reaction that normally sets Jamie
off. He can't explain why it doesn't this time, maybe it's the
sheer surprise of blowback from an old man, but all he sees is a
frightened animal in front of him, so he steps aside, and
reiterates his original offer.

“Oh,” says the man reconsidering, “not used to
help.”

“Can I?”

The old guy checks out Jamie, this unkempt youth.
“You're not going to run away are you?”

“Lunch meat and tomatoes aren't my thing.”

“Comedian, are we?” The guy stares at him, “How do
you know what I have?”

“I was behind you at the mart.”

“Observant kid.”

“Not really.”

“Gonna trust my instincts here.” He gives Jamie the
bag. They make eye contact. A man with stories, thinks Jamie,
unsure whether or not he wants to listen to them. He has little
choice now; he's stepped in, or, stepped up. The guy points, he
doesn't live far and lets Jamie know of his problems; the time in
hospital, his wife long gone—not to feel sorry for him—he had money
once, went up to Canada to drive the big moon trucks in the oil
sands and blew it somehow.

The house is brown like the man's suit, but older and
more delicate. Jamie helps him up the decaying stairs to the front
porch. Developers have tried to tear down the block over the years,
he tells Jamie, but they're still there, hanging on. It's dark and
musty inside, the stained burgundy carpet unchanged in fifty years.
They look after themselves, the man tells him, no one else will.
Jamie admires the man's defiance. He allows Jamie into his tiny
room and unpacks a couple of items from the bag. All he has to show
for his seventy-odd years is here; his single bed with a flat
screen, a couple of knick-knacks, and a Hawaiian shirt for happier
times. The modern world doesn't make for possessions, or so the guy
believes, and with a wink he tells Jamie not to believe what
they're selling. He excuses himself for a moment and takes the bag
with the rest of the groceries across the wide entrance hall. Jamie
follows his travails forgetting to offer help, his eyes preferring
to scan the relative squalor. He's surprised by the man knocking on
a door and asking for a Mrs. Palmer. Jamie hasn't quite twigged the
set up here. The man enters the room, the door open enough for
Jamie to see a frail elderly woman in bed.

“Got what you wanted Mrs. P—except the
strawberries—they weren't looking all that hot.” The woman coughs a
sick thank you. “This nice gentleman out there helped me.”

Jamie's struck, he's not used to being talked of in
such terms, or anyone, for that matter, conversing with respect.
His world is curt and harsh. Long ago humankind started barking at
one another in one hundred and forty characters and never stopped.
The house begins to cave in on him, and finally it dawns; all the
rooms in this old house are shared by the elderly. Those unable to
look after themselves are looking after one another. This broken
man fetching groceries for an infirm woman strikes an acute sadness
within. He has to escape. It's all Dickensian, the world's gone
forward and backward at the same time. Jamie says his goodbyes. He
wouldn't normally.