Part 2, Chapter 2 (Continued)

Here's the second part of Part 2, Chapter 2. I'll post the next chapter on June 4th. Enjoy your weekend. I'll be busy moving house!

Dave

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2 (Continued)

Mistress Sylvia arranges to have a group meeting during that evening’s meal. I’ve been in Mecca only one day and already things have started to crumble. My emotions swing between relief, elation, unease, and fear. Mistress Sylvia’s very existence as female gives mankind hope and brings me to a euphoric mood, yet the bizarre politics of Mecca give me the opposite sensation. Mistress Sylvia’s matriarchy, the almost complete submission of the men, and that afternoon’s shooting, means I’m afraid this whole system could topple at any moment.

I’m not sure if I want the system to topple or not, but I know I don’t want to be left here alone.

“This afternoon’s events were very unfortunate,” Mistress Sylvia addresses the gathered audience in the evening. “We lost a valuable member of Mecca and another equally valued member is seriously injured. We’re lucky this second individual didn’t also die, considering the amount of blood he lost. For that we must thank our resident medical expert, Dr. Evans.” I don’t know how much blood the human body must lose in order for an individual to die, but the carpet of our old room is soaked. There was so much blood that Nicolas had to reappear and move Hank, James, and I into the next room down the hall, which has an almost identical layout. When I collected my bags, I took in the blood saturated carpet and the light splatter of red on my backpack. My stomach churned, but my mind was numb.

“These events have been very unfortunate and unsettling, but they do raise important issues about the survival of our group.

“Philip’s anger concerned our open door policy and I know that this is an element of antagonism for a few more of you in this room.” A few glances pass across the crowd and there’s the occasional nod. “I’m going to answer this simply and definitively. Being selective of who we allow to join our group during our infancy can only stunt our future development and growth. The more men we have, the more work we can do, the more farming and construction, the more salvaging and reconnaissance. Were we to select our members through elitist methods, we would find that, rather than ourselves nurturing and busying those fragile minds through Mecca’s system, they would waste their efforts on futile endeavors, living for the moment, inadequately pushing for nothing, which wouldn’t help anybody. Chaos would soon reign outside our doors. You all remember what it was like prior to this organization. It was only a few days ago. You all remembered how it was if you crossed an angry, desperate looter’s path. Well, it was an unsafe time.

“Gentlemen, let us forget this pointless antagonism. I think I’ve made my point and I don’t feel the need to talk on it any further. Case closed.” Mistress Sylvia relaxes her stern expression, breaths out a sigh, and moves on to the next topic: the status of the electrical system. Members of the audience pass confused faces, but Mistress Sylvia carries on regardless. I know many of us wonder if perhaps the topic isn’t yet exhausted. I look at those around me and see discontent brewing in postures and expressions. Thomas is the first to raise his voice and ask, very politely, very cautiously, “if perhaps, if at all possible, could we return to the subject on our minds? A man has been murdered, after all. I think there might be more to say.”

Mistress Sylvia turns to face Thomas, with an expression of stone. Around me, I see wide eyes and slack jaws. Amazment that anybody could muster the courage to argue with the matriarch. The problem with crowds is that each individual becomes too afraid to act out alone — we fear ostracization. As more men submitted to Mistress Sylvia over the past few days, others found themselves following the crowd and also submitting to her authority, regardless of their own specific views and feelings.

“Go on,” Mistress Sylvia says with a rigid face. “Do explain.”

“Well,” Thomas says, suddenly self-conscious under the woman’s gaze, kicking his feet against the ground. “Well, I would like to say, to mention, that our growth is limited anyway, by pure physical and, um, biological factors. You’re the only woman here, obviously, and once we stop gaining new men, once we’re the only people left in Pittsburgh, our growth will be limited by the amount of children you can have anyway. Then we won’t grow at all for sixteen years or so, when your daughters are old enough to have children themselves.” The energy from the crowd drives him on. “So it seems to make sense that growing to huge numbers right now isn’t too important, right? We don’t need a huge foundation for society, because when we all grow old and die and leave only your offspring, numbers are going to be limited anyway. It just seems like another one of those futile endeavors you were talking about, right?” He coughs. “We’ll that’s the way I see things.”

There are a few murmurs of agreement and other mutters to the contrary. Mistress Sylvia speaks in a calm, quiet tone. “Point noted. Thank you, Thomas.” She pulls her iron gaze away from him and resumes her lecture on the timetable for electric lighting.

*

That night, in my new bed, with a distressed Hank and James nearby, I dream that I’m acting in a play about superheroes. The performance takes place in an old theatre; the seats stretching away, fading into darkness, row after row of upper bodies with staring eyes. I play the lead and my costume involves wearing a mask made from a radio set. I have a superhero name like The Boomboxer. My outfit makes me feel like an authentic actor and fills me with pride and confidence — like here I am, representing the Royal Shakespeare Company with a boombox over my face. Once I enter the stage, after watching the play from the wings for a while, I realize that I haven’t looked at my lines. I don’t panic or worry, I am an actor-superhero after all, (a trained Shakespearian even!) and so I improvise the lines and stage movements as I go along, much to the distress of the other professionals on stage. I’ve no idea when I should enter or exit, so I enter and exit whenever the whim strikes me. Sometimes I’ll yell, cry out, tell a joke, muse on one topic or another, and exit-left mid-sentence.

I hear one co-star, the villain of the play, mutter, “That was the worst exit possible,” at the end of one scene, but I don’t care because I’m a superhero-actor. The villain must be an amateur.

The audience chuckles upon observing me at such a loss, but I’m pleased to be entertaining them. One character, my superhero sidekick, mentions that we can find the villain at a chocolate factory. Having had a script thrust upon me by a stagehand I make the mistake of reading my sidekick’s next line rather than my own. “Yes, my favorite is a Milky Way.” I was amazed, both that we were advertising confectionary brands in our play and that the bearded director hadn’t dropped the curtains two scenes back.

The play didn’t end. It would never end. Instead, I simply drifted back into waking.