Greg Costikyan - High on Life

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High on Life

by Greg Costikyan

_(Originally published in the November, 1992 issue of Analog.)_

Jason Thackeray was a cheerful man in a dour and sober age. Oh, he lived the same life as anyone else;

like all the rest, he rose in the early morning and ate his decaffeinated breakfast. He got in his car, put his

mouth to the breathalyzer to prove he was Clean, drove to the Blue Line station, and parked. Like

anyone else, he rode the train, watching the engineer through the transparent observation booth as the

man inserted the needle in his arm so the computer could check his blood. Like anyone else, he'd enter

the office through the metal detector, and go behind a Privacy Shield to donate a specimen of urine. And

like anyone else, he'd work a full day and go home to the deratiocinated pabulum that passed for public

entertainment on the box.

But there was this difference about Thackeray; he loved his life.

To most folk, the notion would have been strange; life was earnest, life was purposeful. Enjoyment was

beside the point, and possibly subversive. One strove through school, university, working years to get

ahead, to earn enough to put one's offspring through school and university. The modern world was tough,

competitors domestic and abroad striving as hard or harder. Work was the human condition, and there

was no joy in it; it was merely necessary.

But Thackeray was different. Where others drove with frowns of concentration, listening to

self-improvement tapes, Thackeray sang to the songs on the radio. On the train, everyone else clacked at

palmtops, getting in some work early or reading the news download; Thackeray smiled at complete

strangers, told jokes, struck up conversations. Since the maglev trains were silent, and there was little

else to listen to, his persiflage often had the whole car smiling by the time he reached his destination. He

was that charming.

At work, the line would file forward past the Pharmaceutical Hygiene Officers, everyone serious, quiet,

ready to hand over their specimens -- except for Thackeray, who had actually made friends with those

dour and petty officers of the law. He'd greet them with a cheery, "Good morning," ask after children and

spouses, discuss the sports events of the previous day or the change in weather.

And as he strode through the office toward his desk, he'd greet everyone by name, stop for a chat,

leaving a trail of smiles and lifted spirits in his wake.

In all that dour and purposeful business, he was the only happy man. And that was almost enough; the

business was just a little less dour and purposeful than the rest of the world, its workers just a little more

content.

Jason would even, during his breaks, flirt with the women of the office; and, an amazing thing, never once

was he sued for harassment, accused of Eye Rape, or spritzed with a defensive can of mace. Few other

males of his generation could say the same, but then, few even dared to attempt flirtation, for they knew it

was not only offensive, but morally wrong, politically incorrect, and frivolous besides.

Jason Thackeray was not a noticeably handsome man -- crooked nosed, balding, a little on the heavy

side -- yet his smile, his light-heartedness, and his charming manner were enough. Half the women and a

portion of the men were in love with him.

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Greg Costikyan - High on Life

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