Terry Bisson - Greetings

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Greetings
by Terry Bisson
Most things may never happen: this one will
Philip Larkin, "Aubade"
· · · · ·
One
· · · · ·
It started out with a tangle, which should have been a sign. Tom's first concern, after his
initial raw animal terror, was how to break the news to Ara; so he called Cliff and asked for
help, telling him not to tell anyone, at least until he got there. But Cliff was already on the
phone with Pam, who was meeting Arabella at the farmers market, and so by the time Tom got to
Cliff's (walking across the golf course, even though it was prohibited) "the girls" had already
dropped their bikes in the yard and were waiting in the kitchen.
They were all best friends, old friends ("At our age," Tom liked to joke, "all your friends are
old."), and so Tom wasn't surprised or, after he thought about it, even annoyed to see them. It
made it like an event, a ceremony of sorts, which seemed proper. And the terror had receded to a
dull dread: a fear no less animal, but more domesticated, which he was to learn to live with over
the next ten days, like a big, ugly, dun-colored dog.
"What's this, Cliff, an intervention?" he asked.
"Don't make this into a joke," Arabella warned. She was known for bursting into tears but only for
the little things: a fender bender, a dropped dish, a goldfish floating on the top of the water.
Her hand was damp as it found Tom's under Cliff and Pam's old-wood kitchen table.
"Start at the beginning," said Cliff, who was a lawyer, though he didn't practice anymore. "Guess
he finally got it down," Tom liked to joke; though he didn't feel like joking this morning. It was
11:25, almost lunchtime. It was mid-October, and most of the leaves that were due to go that year
were gone.
"It's pretty simple," Tom said, though pretty wasn't exactly the word. "I got it an hour ago, when
I checked my mail. Certified. Here, I printed it out."
He laid it on the table, flattening it with the heel of his hand. Under the official US logo, it
read:
· · · · ·
GREETINGS Thomas Aaron Clurman (401-25-5423)
YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN BY LOTTERY FOR INDUCTION INTO THE OREGON SUNSET BRIGADE. CONGRATULATIONS ON
YOUR SACRIFICE. YOU ARE TO REPORT TO CASCADE CENTER 1656, 18767 WEST HELLEN ST, AT 10 AM, OCTOBER
22, 20--. IF YOU WISH TO DISCUSS OTHER ARRANGEMENTS, AS PROVIDED BY LAW, PLEASE CALL 154 176 098
8245.
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· · · · ·
"That's only ten days from now," Pam said. "The bastards."
"They don't want to give you time to think about it," said Cliff, who was serving coffee to
everyone.
Arabella burst into tears.
"Come on, honey. What am I, a goldfish?"
"I don't get it," said Cliff, sitting down. The coffee was imported directly from the growers in
Costa Rica. "I thought they weren't drafting anyone under seventy-five."
"Guess now they are." Tom folded the notice and put it into the pocket of his LL Bean chamois
shirt. "The law says three score and ten, doesn't it?"
"The bastards," said Pam.
"That's the Bible, not the law," said Cliff. "Maybe it's the death rate in Africa. I read where
some new vaccine has lowered the infant mortality rate by thirty-four percent."
"Whatever," said Tom, suddenly irritated by Cliff's interest in world events. "At any rate, last
summer we talked about what we would do, remember? No way I'm marching off with the Sunset
Brigade, so I'll need your help; Ara and I will need your help." He squeezed Arabella's hand.
Arabella was slow in squeezing back.
"Well, of course," said Pam. "But isn't there something we need to do first, some …?"
"There's no appeal process," Cliff said. "There are options, of course. And we're with you a
hundred percent, Tom. We all feel the same way you do."
Do you really? thought Tom. "Right. Anyway, maybe Arabella and I should talk first, and see you
guys later."
"Yes, later," said Pam. "Tonight's card night anyway. Come early for dinner."
"Should we bring anything?" asked Arabella.
"Just yourselves," said Pam. "The bastards."
· · · · ·
Walking home, around the golf course, Tom and Arabella were silent. He walked her bike, which was,
he thought, sort of like holding hands. Now, when there was everything to talk about, there was
nothing to say. How come the world looks so bright? Tom wondered. So various, so beautiful, so new
…
"You and Cliff were stoned that night at Holystone Bay," said Arabella. "It isn't all that easy
to, you know, do it yourself."
"Stoned but sincere," said Tom. "What do you want me to do, join the Brigade?"
"I don't want any of it. There must be something we can do. We should call the kids."
"Not yet," said Tom. "It's not their problem. Besides, Gwyneth was just here last week. Thomas is
another matter altogether."
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"Thomas always was."
· · · · ·
That night Pam cooked pasta. Cliff brought out a bottle of wine from his own vineyard.
"It must have been Africa," he said. He showed them the article in The Economist. A new vaccine
had reduced the infant mortality rate and therefore, it was speculated, adjustments would have to
be made in the death rates in the "developed" countries.
Tom had never had a problem with this before. Neither had Cliff. America had reaped the benefits
of selective underdevelopment for hundreds of years. Now they were making up for it.
But tonight, drinking Cliff's Willamette Valley pinot noir and looking out over the golf course,
Tom found it alarming that someone else's good fortune was his bad luck. Did this mean that life
was a zero-sum game after all; and that the humanistic, liberal philosophy that had guided him and
Cliff for most of their fifty-odd years as friends, was false; based on a false premise—that the
greatest good for all and the greatest good for one were in some sort of deep, unwritten, unspoken
but unbreakable harmony? Now the world, lopsided or not, was about to spin on without him.
It was, quite literally, unimaginable.
"I think they're after the opposition," Pam was saying. "The bastards."
"We're hardly the opposition," Cliff pointed out. "In fact, you might recall we're among those who
supported the hemlock laws as a progressive move; a willingness to think and act in global terms."
"But not the Brigades," said Tom. "Not those smiling, marching fuckers with their little flags."
"What about the Resistance?" Pam asked.
"That's an urban legend," said Cliff.
"Wishful thinking," said Tom. "A token opposition at best. Look, there's no point in talking about
how to beat this. We're not kids. I'll be seventy-one in August. I've had my three score and ten."
"So has Cliff," said Pam, who was sixty-six herself. "I still say there's something fishy about
it. How many friends do we have who've gotten Greetings?"
"Guy Frakes, from the firm," said Cliff.
"Not exactly a friend. And he was almost eighty," said Pam.
"Seventy-seven," said Cliff.
"That's what he told you."
"You're not going to get that many anyway," said Cliff. "The Brigades are just a symbol, showing
our willingness to adjust the death rate rationally. Most of the quota is made up by DNRs and end-
term care reductions."
"And it's all guys," said Tom. "That was a great victory of the women's movement."
"Huh?" said Pam, showing her teeth.
"Look, it's a law of nature. All this does is put us into some sort of compliance," Tom said. He
was amazed, listening to himself, at how self-assured he sounded. "Besides, we already decided
what to do about this. Remember? We talked about it."
"You mean last summer, at the beach house," said Pam. "You guys were stoned."
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"What does being stoned have to do with it?" Cliff protested. "It was after we watched that PBS
special on the Brigades, before they had their weekly show."
"It was disgusting," said Tom. "Enlightening, really. All those geezers in their orange uniforms
marching off into the sunset."
"Some were even volunteers," said Cliff.
"Cancer patients," said Tom. "They joined for the last cigarette."
"I don't see why you have to make a joke of it," said Arabella.
"It's no joke," said Tom. "It's my life, and I want to go out like I lived, with my friends, with
dignity. With some dignity, anyway. At home. Listening to Coltrane, or Bob Dylan."
"And stoned," said Cliff. "Why not. I'll take care of that part."
"We'll all do our part," said Pam. She reached out for Arabella's hand. "You can count on us."
"Me, too," said Tom. "I'll check out. End of story. That'll be it."
It. They were all silent. Tom reached for the wine bottle, and saw that it was empty.
"It's just that we never really thought it would happen," said Arabella.
"No, but how many people live to be this old anyway? Better than dying of cancer." Although Tom
wasn't as sure as he sounded. At least cancer didn't give you a date.
"It's even legal," said Cliff, "not that that matters. Oregon has a law making it legal to do it
at home. Every state except Kentucky and Arkansas has them—it was a rider that defused some of the
opposition to the Brigades."
"So what do we—do?" Arabella asked, pouring herself the last few drops of wine.
"We open another bottle," suggested Tom.
"I checked out the law at lunch," said Cliff. "All you have to do is show the Greetings, and you
get the hemlock kit. It can all be done at the drugstore."
"How convenient," said Pam. "The bastards."
· · · · ·
Two
The next morning, Tom, Pam and Arabella went to Walgreens for the kit. They were sent to the
pharmacy counter at the back of the store.
The pharmacist was a young man of about forty-five. He had a Sunset Brigade Certificate on the
wall: a picture of his father, the former owner of the store, saluting a sunset. Living Forever In
Our Hearts, it said.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
Tom seemed to have lost his voice.
"We need one of those kits," Pam said, because Arabella wasn't speaking up either. It seemed that
she had lost her voice, too.
"One of those what?"
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Pam took the induction notice from Tom's hand; she unfolded it and spread it out on the counter.
"They sent us back here to get it."
"Oh, the home kit." The pharmacist looked at Tom. "It's $79.95."
"Jesus," said Pam. "Eighty bucks? What do you get?"
"You get an IV rack," the pharmacist said. "You get the three chems, the sharps, and the sterile
solution; cotton swabs; death certificate, plastic bags …"
Arabella looked sick. "I'm going to wait in the car," she said.
Tom started to follow her, but something held him back. This is my show. The pharmacist reached
under the counter and set a beige box on the counter. "There's a DVD, too," he said. "Do you have
a DVD player?"
"Everybody has a DVD player." Tom's voice was back.
"Well, there's a DVD that comes in the kit. And this 800 number here on the side is for the
monitor. But you don't have to worry about that; he'll be calling you. As soon as I make this
sale, your number goes into the database."
"Monitor?" Pam sounded suspicious.
"There has to be someone there from the government," the pharmacist said. "You're using lethal
drugs."
"But they're supposed to be lethal," said Tom.
"Doesn't matter," the pharmacist said. "It's the law. It's not an extra cost. Although I hear some
people tip him."
"Ring it up," said Tom.
Arabella was waiting by the car, in the parking lot. "Cliff just called," she said.
"And?"
"Better let him tell you." And she burst into tears, for the second time.
· · · · ·
Cliff had gotten his notice at the office. He went in two days a week. He wasn't practicing, but
mentoring a younger attorney.
"This makes things simpler," he said, spreading it out on his kitchen table. It looked exactly
like Tom's, except that the date was three days later.
· · · · ·
GREETINGS William Clifford Brixton III (401-25-5423)
YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN BY LOTTERY FOR INDUCTION INTO THE OREGON SUNSET BRIGADE. CONGRATULATIONS ON
YOUR SACRIFICE. YOU ARE TO REPORT TO CASCADE CENTER 1656, 18767 WEST HELLEN ST, AT 10 AM OCTOBER
25, 20--. IF YOU WISH TO DISCUSS OTHER ARRANGEMENTS, AS PROVIDED BY LAW, PLEASE CALL 154 176 098
8245
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· · · · ·
"Simpler!?" said Pam.
"I mean, now it's unanimous, or something."
"Like, we don't count?" said Arabella.
"That's not what I said," said Cliff. "Not what I meant."
"Do you really want to count?" Tom asked. "I mean, this is one battle the women's liberation
movement didn't want to win."
"Leave the women's liberation movement out of this," said Pam. "So what do we do now?"
"The same thing we were already doing," said Cliff. "Same time, same station. Another kit."
"Jesus! Isn't one enough?" Tom asked. "We've always shared everything before."
"And we're sharing this," said Cliff. "But it's the law. You have to have one for each—inductee."
· · · · ·
Three
· · · · ·
The next day, a Wednesday, Tom went with Cliff and Pam to pick up the second kit at the drugstore.
This time they got another pharmacist; a more sympathetic, older man—African-American.
Was it just a convention of the movies, or were African-Americans always more sympathetic? Tom
wondered. It was always either that or angrier, never both at once, as in real life.
Real life. It has a beginning. It has an end. It's almost over.
"There are several alternate exit program DVDs," the pharmacist was saying. "Made to coordinate
with the official kit. You can get them at Tower Records or order them from Amazon. Or your church
may provide one. It's more personal."
· · · · ·
"Two by two," said Cliff, laying the two kits side by side on the kitchen table. "Like Noah's
ark."
"Not exactly," said Tom.
The woman were away, at the Aerobics for Seniors class that they shared. Life had to go on, after
all.
It will go on, Tom thought. Without me. It was, quite literally, inconceivable.
"Let's smoke a joint," said Cliff. He pulled out the silver cigarette case he had received after
twenty years at his law firm. In it were six neatly rolled joints, the finest sinsemilla, a week's
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supply.
That afternoon, as luck would have it, the Brigades had their weekly show. It was afternoon TV;
not quite ready for prime time. The celebrity guest was introduced to do the invocation. It was
almost always a woman.
This week it was Hillary Clinton.
The Sunset Brigade, in rose-colored coveralls, were lined up on a hill overlooking the sea. Their
eyes were shining; their jaws were firm. The veterans got to wear their military braid. The theme
was a frenchhorn/piano concerto especially written for the Brigades by Randy Newman.
Tom turned off the sound.
"You get an extra four days," he said, looking at Cliff's induction notice.
"Three," said Cliff. "I'm not going to take them, though. We'll go together. It'll be easier on
the girls that way."
"You think so?"
"I know so." Cliff passed Tom the joint. Hillary got thin, scattered applause. The Brigade saluted
the flag and started up the hill. Judging from the vegetation, this induction was taking place
somewhere in the East. Massachusetts? New Jersey? The East, like the West, looked all alike.
There was nothing to distinguish the draftees from the volunteers, except for the few who were in
wheelchairs with IVs on little masts. They marched (or rolled) off shoulder to shoulder in their
rose uniforms and easy-off slippers, following the color guard off to the departure site, which
was always over a hill and never seen. They carried little individualized flags their wives and
grandchildren had made. The flags would be returned to the loved ones.
When the last of the men disappeared over the hill, Cliff turned the sound back on. The closing
theme was by Elton John: another version of "Candle in the Wind."
Tom turned it off.
"Better to do it our own way," said Cliff.
"Anything is better than that clown show," said Tom.
"What are you guys watching?" Pam asked, bursting through the door like Kramer, as she always did.
Always, thought Tom. Always was almost over. For him, anyway. And for Cliff, too.
"Nothing," said Cliff, turning off the TV. "Some dumb reality show."
· · · · ·
Tom and Arabella had never had trouble making love, even though the frequency had dropped. Once
they had gone for a whole year. But when he turned sixty-five, Tom had decided that they were
going to set aside a day every two weeks for sex play, like it or not. It turned out that they
liked it; liked being freed of the need to think about it and initiate it. At least he did.
But today something was wrong.
"Not a problem," said Arabella.
"Easy for you to say," said Tom.
Ara saw no point in arguing. She got out of bed and undressed, pulling on her regular panties, the
ones he hated, that made her look like an old lady. "How about I make us some coffee?"
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"Later," said Tom. "First I got to go see Ray."
· · · · ·
Ray was Tom's lawyer. His office was in a trendy new shopping center overlooking the Rose Garden.
His desktop was of recycled barn wood. Odd, thought Tom, how many things in the new world get more
valuable as they get older.
Everything but us.
"What can I do you for?" asked Ray.
They were old movement comrades, if not exactly friends. They had once been adversaries, since Ray
was of the electoral persuasion, and Tom and Cliff were Direct Action.
But that was long ago.
Tom unfolded his induction notice and flattened it along Ray's desk, looking out for splinters.
"Jesus fucking Christ," said Ray. "Are you sure this isn't a mistake. I thought they weren't
calling anyone under seventy."
"I'm seventy," said Tom, refolding the paper. For the first time he noticed its color and shape,
like a tiny tombstone. "So are you."
"Well, you get certain advantages," said Ray. "There's the bonus. And there is no probate, which
means you won't have to worry about Arabella. I mean, in terms of the house and stuff."
"We don't get the bonus," said Tom. "We're not doing it."
"Not doing it?" Ray looked uncomfortable.
"Not doing the Brigade thing. There's a provision in the law that allows you to do it yourself, at
home. We're going to do it at our summer place, down at Holystone Bay."
Ray nodded. He had done the paperwork on the partnership twelve years before, when Tom and Ara had
bought the house with Cliff and Pam. Ray had provided for every possible disagreement. There had
been none. If anything, the two families were closer now than they had been then, when they had
been cautiously, consciously, determinedly recovering from Cliff and Arabella's foolish, brief,
unhappy affair.
"I want you to make sure Arabella is covered. And one other thing: I want you to have my Steve
Earle records."
"Jesus, man. That's huge. But what about Cliff?"
"Cliff, too. Cliff's going with me."
"Jesus fucking Christ. Cliff, too! I've always hated these Brigades, even though I agree with the
idea, I guess. But this stinks."
"I don't know why you say that," said Tom. "We've always felt that it wasn't right for the
developed countries to use all the resources. Well, here it is: population control. It's not
abortion or infanticide. It's voluntary. Or sort of, anyway."
"Nobody fucking volunteers," said Ray. "Not for—this."
"Well. Let's not abandon all our principles just because our number came up."
Ray was silent. Tom realized he had been lecturing him. It was an old habit he had never managed
to lose. "Sorry," he said. "I was on a high horse."
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"It's okay," Ray said. "I've always rather liked your high horse. And now—"
He blushed and shuffled through a stack of papers.
"You need to sign a power of attorney for Arabella," he said. "I have one on boilerplate. It will
avoid probate. Especially since you and Arabella aren't actually married."
"What about the domestic partner's law?"
"They still contest that occasionally," said Ray. "What if they wanted to get even?"
"For what?"
"For doing things your own way. Here. You sign it, and I'll get Arabella's signature after. I
mean, later."
Tom signed the papers and got up to leave. Ray came around his desk and stopped him at the door.
"I don't know what to say, man."
"I'm sorry I lectured you. It's just, a shock, you know."
"It is to me, too. I don't know what to say, man."
"That's okay. Just so long, I guess."
"It's been great knowing you."
"Likewise," Tom said. And he meant it. It was his first good-bye. "So long."
· · · · ·
When Tom got home, Cliff and Pam were at the house. Cliff laid a ticket on the glass-topped table.
It had a red-white-and-blue border.
"What's that?" asked Tom.
"Your airline pass," said Cliff. "I figured you might want to see your kids."
"What about your kids?"
"We just saw them last month," Pam said.
The pass was good for one round trip in the continental USA.
"I thought we didn't get them if we did it ourselves."
"I fooled them," said Cliff. "I turned my kit back in, told them I'd changed my mind."
"You didn't—"
"No, no. I'll go back and get it again. Change my mind again. I have ten days to decide,
remember?"
"I could have done that," said Tom.
Cliff shook his head. "You're not a good liar," he said. "I'm a lawyer, remember? Or didn't you
notice that big car parked outside?"
After Cliff left, Arabella asked: "Who are you going to see?"
"Thomas," he said.
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"I thought so," she said.
· · · · ·
Four
· · · · ·
Tom and Arabella had two kids. Thomas, from Tom's first marriage, was a loan officer in Las Vegas.
Thomas and his wife, Elaine, had two kids. If it had been possible, they would have had 1.646,
thought Tom—the national average. The only child actually born of Tom and Arabella was Gwyneth,
thirty, a kindergarten teacher in San Francisco.
She was Tom's favorite, but he had seen her just the week before. She knew he loved her.
Thomas was more of a problem.
On Monday, with four days left to go, Tom caught a flight for Las Vegas. It felt strange to be
leaving Arabella, this close to the end of everything. Tom, who used to be terrified of landings,
noticed as the plane descended that he wasn't nervous anymore. Everything in the world looked so
temporary—what was a plane filled with people, more or less?
He was a little disappointed when the landing, like the twenty-three that had preceded it that
day, or the two hundred twenty-three that had preceded it that week, went off without a hitch.
Thomas met him at the gate, looking worried. "Something wrong?" he asked.
"Why should something be wrong?"
"You don't usually come and visit us here except on holidays," said Thomas. "In case you didn't
notice. And Arabella usually comes with you."
"I just felt like seeing the grandchildren," said Tom. "And you and Elaine, of course."
Traffic in Las Vegas was even slower than Tom had remembered. The leather seats and quiet ride of
the big Mercedes made it worse, not better.
Thomas and Elaine put him in the guest room, which had its own bath.
"Makes it feel like a motel," he said to Arabella, on his cell phone.
"It's their world," said Arabella. "People want to have their own bathroom. Sharing a bathroom
seems old fashioned, and probably a little unsanitary, I guess."
"Makes it feel like a motel," Tom said again.
"Just be nice," she said, "and hurry home."
· · · · ·
The next afternoon, Tom took his grandchildren to the zoo.
Tara wanted to see the gorilla that had died the month before. She naively thought its body would
still be on display. Eric wanted to talk about his day at school. Tom was impressed—how many kids
want to talk about school? Until he heard what it was.
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