Making the World Safe for Tourism

Here's another example of an Earth gone wrong ... and who would've thought Disneyworld (along with a few other corporations) would've been the culprit?

     There was gunfire in the streets. All in all, that wasn't such an unusual phenomenon in an American city during the Relapse, but in this case, there was quite a bit more gunfire than usual. The sound came faintly through manhole covers and sewer grates, mingling with the steady drip of liquid and the scuttling of rodent feet. The rats were fleeing the area like they would a sinking ship. The walkway on either side of the canal of sludge ended, but the rodents simply swam in it. They at least appeared to know what they were doing, which was quite a bit more than Judy could say for herself. She debated whether or not to follow. She was weary and hadn't been raised for trudging through muck after rabies-infested creatures; plus, she was wearing an expensive pair of designer jeans.
     A loud blast from a machine gun directly overhead made up her mind for her. Though Judy was not fond of sewers, death seemed altogether much more unpleasant. She jumped into the filth. She sloshed forward as fast as she could through a knee-deep stream of contaminated water and human blood. Fortunately (if one could refer to someone mucking through a sewer as "fortunate"), the current was on her side.
     It was an hour before she heard a distant manhole cover open, followed by a soft hissing. Gas, of course. It was much easier than dropping down into the god-forsaken sewer. Judy fumbled with the gas mask she had taken from the body of a well-armored, highly-trained, skilled mercenary whom an equally well-armored, highly trained and skilled mercenary had accidentally shot. She managed to slip the mask on before the fumes reached her. She froze, either from the fear of being heard or from general, unthinking fear. The rats around her squeaked in agony, their tiny limbs twitching before movement ceased altogether. They were carried away by the current, presumably toward some enjoyable afterlife. Or another part of the sewer.
     Judy began to move again, slowly. Her sound was indistinguishable from that of the current, easily mistaken for the flow of recently-spilled civilian blood from the streets above. She wouldn't wait for the hose to be taken from off the manhole cover, fearing that one of the mercenaries would check to see if his job had been done properly. The tourism industry was run by brutal perfectionists.
     This is only a dream, she told herself. She was remarkably patriotic, feeling that such a fate could never befall an industrialized nation like hers. Of course, the former Yugoslavia had been pretty modern as well.
     Though it was compulsorily developed by the Five, Disgoslavia, as it would later be known, was not a popular theme park and went under quite quickly, prompting a few changes in a certain corporation's business plan.
     Compulsory development happened to third-world countries and measly tropical islands, not the United States. These economic problems were only temporary, a second Great Depression. They could be worked through. The government already had a plan. It was selling territory, as if pawning family heirlooms. Alaska had been sold back to the Russians, a moderately profitable transaction. No one paid too much, since the country's desperation was obvious: It would take what it could get. At any rate, it was more profitable than selling the Dakotas.
     Different thoughts faded in and out of her head as she trudged on. Sometimes, her brain swirled with so much activity that it made her dizzy, made her forget where she was; sometimes, her mind was empty. Above all, she told herself: this isn't real. None of this is real.
     The pain in her aching limbs seemed real, though.
     She walked on long after the sounds of the melee faded behind her. Instead, Judy heard more water rushing up ahead. It was the sound of numerous pipes full of the city's wastes pouring into an enormous lake that stank and coagulated under the open sky.
     I must be in New Jersey, she thought.
     She walked up the bank of the lake, trying not to step in anything that looked particularly hazardous. The area was surrounded by sickly trees. A gentle wind blew, and crickets chirped in the distance. Judy took off her gas mask, letting the cool air brush against her face.
     She moved on, the lower half of her body asleep. The forest became healthier as the distance between it and the lake increased. An owl hooted in the distance.
     Judy didn't feel her foot catch on a log, so she tripped and fell. She landed on a patch of crackling leaves. It was a sufficient bed. She fell asleep where she lay.


     Her mind drifted from her body, seeking comfort in memories of other places, other times. It floated over countless visions, real and imaginary, searching for one as far away from Judy's reality as it could get. Eventually, it settled into a strikingly ordinary afternoon that, mundane as it was, had nothing to do with mercenaries, poison gas, sewers or lakes in New Jersey.
     That was just fine with Judy.


     Judy stepped into the dorm, her arms burdened with a few plastic sacks of groceries. Matt was in front of the computer, wearing a T-shirt displaying a picture of Mickey Mouse in the crosshairs of a gun above the words "PEOPLE AGAINST DISNEY". She wrinkled her nose at the sight of it, but didn't allow any distaste into her tone of voice when she asked, "Could you check and see if anyone bought Hawaii yet?"
     It took a moment for her presence to register. "Huh? Oh, sure. Hold on a sec."
     After half a minute, she pulled out a plastic canister of powder to remind him that she did, indeed, still exist, and that he had an obligation to fulfill her request. "Got your Nestlé Qwik."
     "Thanks." He paused. "It's between Japan and Germany and AOL-Time Warnersoft."
     She nodded.
     AOL-Time Warnersoft would win, doubtlessly. Japan and Germany may have had the strongest economies in the world, but those two, even with the backing of the European Union, couldn't outbid the Five. They claimed to be separate companies, and to one extent, they were: Separate as fingers are on a hand.
     "What are you doing for Spring Break?"
     He shrugged and half-heartedly grunted.
     "Well," she said without caring that no one was listening, "I'm going back to the States to visit my family. I'm free to cross the border now, you know."
     Judy squirted some pulp-less juice from a plastic, yellow, lemon-shaped container into a glass. The sound seemed to awaken something in Matt.
     "You know, that's not what lemons really look like, originally."
     "What do you mean?"
     "They're grown. The stuff's squeezed out of them, and they add water to it and put it in that."
     "Huh," she said, almost interested.


     Her mind quickly got bored with Matt and decided to move along to something more interesting. A vacation.
     The sun shone brightly from a clear sky upon a white, shimmering beach. The sand sparkled so pleasantly because it wasn't really sand; it was a synthetic grain specially designed to resist severe temperature increase, fail to adhere to clothing and, among other things, look picturesque.
     Hypo-allergenic tropical flowers flourished. The water was sapphire blue and free of any unfriendly creatures, thanks to various chemical treatments and other processes only known to those who turn landscapes into theme park scenery. It was an idyllic spot, like an airbrushed photograph in a travel brochure. It wasn't a particularly ecologically diverse spot, as some had complained, but no one cared because that particular breed of environmentalist never had much money.
     Seven-year-old Judy surveyed the scene with a perspective of total child-like naiveté -- which, for a theme park tycoon, was the mind of an ideal tourist -- and only knew that the scene was, indeed, pretty -- which was, for a theme park tycoon, the desired impression from the patron. She knew nothing of the lack of authenticity around her, nor did she know that the fresh smells of salt water and exotic plants (hypo-allergenic flowers produce no pollen, hence, no scent) that would have delighted travelers of the past was absent from the air, though she did recognize something vaguely reminiscent of an air freshener. Another fact that young Judy was entirely unaware of was the fact that scent is strongly tied to memory and, due to the lack of any unique and interesting odors to come across later, invoking old feelings, she would not remember the trip.
     Rather, she would have not remembered the trip, if she hadn't been mildly traumatized. The girl had managed to gain a few memories, as well as a pavlovian apprehension in response to the smelling of certain kinds of air freshener.
     Nineteen-year-old Judy, formerly a member of a very high income bracket, currently a student and a refugee living in an utterly unremarkable Canadian town, saw through the eyes of the seven-year old girl she once was.
     What she saw was an attractive foreigner -- though not too attractive or exotic, in order to satisfy the more puritan, xenophobic customers---cheerfully welcoming tourists, smiling and shaking hands.
     "Welcome to the Island of Jamaica^TM," she said with only the slightest of accents, "a part of Disney's Growing World."
     Back then, that last phrase didn't make Judy feel uneasy.
     Smiling pleasantly, the greeter shook hands with an entering couple and fielded a few questions about how to get to certain parts of the park.
     Still smiling pleasantly, she ignored a remark that was both extraordinarily racist and sexist from a young male tourist.
     Then, smiling just as pleasantly, she burst into flames.
     The shocking part of the matter had nothing to do with the fact that she was animatronic. It wouldn't have taken a great mind to guess that. What surprised and infuriated Judy's parents was the lack of attention to craftsmanship this particular unit was given.
     "They only pay attention to the exterior," her father said angrily. "They could spend just a little extra time to give it a more advanced A.I. but noo..."
     "If they did that, they might as well hire human beings," her mother said. "I've heard of 'droids striking for better working hours."
     He chortled. "I'd like to see that."
     The greeter's expression never changed, and, rather than take some alternate action such as, say, running screaming towards the ocean, she continued to try to shake hands and welcome visitors, though the tourists were drawn to other greeters who were just as attractive, cheery, and, more importantly, not on fire.


     Judy's mind jumped, horrified, like a clerk who had opened a filing cabinet and found not papers but a drawer full of venomous reptiles and insects as well as many other unpleasant things one would prefer not to find in a filing cabinet. It slammed the metaphorical drawer and rushed off to another, this one labeled HAPPY CHILDHOOD MEMORIES ENTIRELY FREE OF TRAUMA.
     Judy's childhood had been idyllic, perfect. It was the kind recalled by the elderly, who, slipping away into senility, would claim that everyone was happy, families got along perfectly, the streets were always clean, prices were reasonable and that social or political strife was nonexistent, immediately before going on about how horrible everything was now, searching for an explanation as to why, and finally settling on some activist group to rant about until the medication kicked in. The only difference between rose-tinted nostalgia and Judy's memories was the fact that hers had been entirely real.
     She had lived in Celebration, Disney's successful attempt to recapture an America that had never actually existed. No street had a pothole, strip joint, or house painted avocado green. Every store was in walking distance; benches was made of teak; there was even a Bread Alone. Many (including Matt; Judy never managed to hear the end of his ranting on the subject) scorned it, denouncing it to be a kind of Stepford, to which its residents would usually respond, "What's a Stepford?"
     Judy remembered one perfectly innocent night, years ago, in the midst of a relatively warm December. It had been forty-two degrees Fahrenheit. Every house on the block was tastefully adorned with seasonal decorations. Each had received that morning a note which read, simply:


     Judy had bundled up, putting on the clothing deemed appropriate by the relevant catalogues. She stepped outside to wait. At exactly six forty-five in the evening, not a second later, the first few flakes began to fall, white specks from a black sky, dandruff from the town's omnipotent corporate god. Judy squealed with laughter.
     But memories of Celebration always invoked memories of leaving it, of sliding past the cheery streets with their manicured lawns, the parks that were safe to walk at night, and the machine gun turrets surrounding the town that would keep it that way. Judy's own personal flight into Ontario, a few short years later, just before the border became a barrier, would always be inextricably linked to her family's expulsion from Celebration. Perhaps it was the same feeling of sadness watching the border patrol stand guard. She remembered her mother's tear-choked confession: they were being kicked out because their living room window had the wrong color drapes.


     Finally, Judy's brain grew tired of trying to find something pleasant and gave up, resolving to let whatever nightmare wishing to grip Judy to do so; it was going out for a drink. Fortunately, Judy was awakened by sunlight filtering through the trees at that point. She got up, stretched, and immediately fell back to the ground again, whimpering and rubbing each aching limb (which was all of them). She had awful muscle fatigue from all that walking.
     After some deliberation, she slowly, slowly stood up again and very gently stretched every limb to reduce pain and prepare herself for more walking.
     It didn't work very well. She fell to the ground again.
     Hell with it, she thought, and stood up again. She hobbled on through the woods.


     Matt picked up the phone.
     "Hello?"
     "Matt?" The voice was tired, bitter.
     "Judy?"
     "Did you read the news?"
     "Yeah. Like it's the Senator's fault his staff hired a nymphomaniac intern. It was a total setup. Such bull."
     Normally, she would have told him to watch his language. "Who bought us?"
     "What?"
     "Which of the Five -- oh, forget it. It doesn't matter."
     "Oh yeah. I heard about that. Too bad."
     "I'm there right now."
     "Where are you calling from?"
     "Payphone in an abandoned restaurant. Matt, there are dead people in the booths. Machine-gunned down. They kill everyone, replace them."
     "Judy--"
     "One of the engineers they hire for landscaping was a scientist who worked on chemical warfare. He experimented on American POWs. Killed hundreds of people. Tortured them for experiments, God knows how many more were killed by the weapons themselves."
     "Judy--"
     "I barely escaped with my life."
     "Judy!"
     "Yeah?"
     "I know."
     There was a clicking sound as she accidentally dropped the receiver and picked it up again.
     "What?!"
     "I know about all of that. And by the way, you shouldn't judge a company on who they hire. It's what they do."
     "They kill people!"
     He leaned back in his cozy swivel chair and rolled his eyes. "I know, Judy."
     "Why aren't you up in arms about it! My goodness, Matt! I thought you hated Disney! You criticize them for breaching contracts and not genocide! You know, there's a very important part of being an activist that you seem to have forgotten."
     "What's that?" he asked, as if he cared to hear the answer.
     "The part in which you commit some kind of act!"
     "Look," he said, taking a sip of Nestlé Qwik. "I know about infant mortality in third world countries, but there's nothing I can do about that, either. Besides, local governments have been cooperating."
     There was a dull rumbling on the other side of the phone. Judy must have been coughing. She'd never use that kind of language.
     "What was that?"
     "I said, 'Damn you, Matt.' Damn you and all your pseudo-revolutionaries. Damn your web sites, damn your bumper stickers and damn your T-shirt slogans. You know what Dante said? 'The hottest parts of Hell are reserved for those who remain neutral in times of crisis.'"
     There was a click and a dial tone.
     Stunned, Matt blinked a few times. The telephone began to beep loudly before he hung it up. He asked an empty room, "When the hell did she learn to quote Dante?"


     Matt pushed a shopping cart through a cloud of easy-listening muzak. It seemed he'd be doing the grocery shopping from now on. He was safe. Compulsory development happened to countries that, though poor, are well-known for their beauty or rich culture. Charming as Canada may be, it is not a nation known for its cultural heritage.
     Matt's eyes scanned the rows of pre-wrapped food items with dull apathy. He trudged down to the produce section to stare at the pyramids of neatly stacked ReaLemons^TM and waxy-skinned apples. Something slipped by between the two hemispheres of his brain and awakened an old memory. Old produce sellers. The vendors used to frequent the avenue he grew up on. He remembered the creak of the ancient wooden carts, heavy with produce that was not yet wrapped in plastic. They always seemed to be sold by foreigners, recent immigrants whose faces and accents invoked an unfamiliarity that was both frightening and undeniably magnetic. They had dirty fingernails and regular street clothes. The fruit was bruised, possibly chewed by insects, handled by unwashed hands, but he had been drawn to it the same, like a tourist to a museum exhibit trying to understand an artifact from a long-dead world. Perhaps he had tried to imagine himself in that world once.
     Don't bother, he told himself. It's just a lemon. It's not as if there's some deeper psychological meaning, some kind of brilliant symbolism behind it.
     Still, he found himself yearning for something that wasn't safe, plastic and ultimately empty: just one, single real lemon.
     But this supermarket didn't carry any, and the vendors were long gone. Matt shrugged, put a ReaLemon^TM into his cart and sleep-walked down the aisle.

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