Youthtopia
Tony Christini
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Tony Christini
This book is a work of fiction. All characters are fictional.
smashwords.com/profile/view/christini
WHAT THEY ARE SAYING ABOUT YOUTHTOPIA:
"A terrible book. Irresponsible."
-Barry Obay
"This book should be banned."
-Dale Servile
"No one under 21 should be allowed to read this book."
-Marsha Sireton
"No reputable publisher should go anywhere near it."
-Amanda Thority
"Ban it. Burn it. Bury it."
-Luke Baas
High school like you've never seen it.
High school like you've always known it.
Welcome to friendly Rockview Terminal!
This parent handbook overviews the high quality educational atmosphere of Rockview Terminal. Here in lovely Rockview we never forget that our children are our greatest resource, and we do everything in our power to make sure that our children are mentally cleansed, as thoroughly and as efficiently as possible.
Patriotica, electronica, Americonica – YouthTopia.
YOUTHTOPIA
ONE – ROCKVIEW TERMINAL
INTRODUCTION – Stan D. Garde, Terminator of History
FOREWORD – Jay Cage, Superinterminent of Terminals
..1 Terminal Space
2 Terminal Crucifixion
3 Terminal Isolation
4 Terminal Electronica
5 Terminal Fall
6 Terminal Humor
7 Terminal Insurance
8 Terminal Cheer
9 Terminal Custodians
10 Terminal Race
11 Terminal TV
12 Terminal Cooks
11 Terminal Lunch
13 Terminal Infantilization
14 Terminal Experts
15 Terminal Buses
16 Terminal Security
17 Terminal Drugs
18 Terminal Sex
19 Terminal Dances
20 Terminal Requirements
21 Terminal Psychology
22 Terminal Menace
23 Terminal Mascot
24 Terminal Helicopter
25 Terminal Volunteer
TWO – TERMINAL CRISIS
26 Terminal Attack
27 Terminal Slavery
28 Terminal Graffiti
29 Terminal Corrections
30 Terminal Discipline
31 Terminal Nightmare
32 Terminal Politics
33 Terminal Conclusion
Resources on Education & Youth
Books
Sites
Rockview Terminal
“I’ve worked as a New York City schoolteacher for twenty-six years...and have won awards doing so.… Over the years, I have come to see that whatever I thought I was doing as a teacher, most of what I actually was doing was teaching an invisible curriculum that reinforced the myths of the school institution and those of an economy based on caste... What I do that is right is simple to understand– I get out of kids’ way, I give them space and time and respect. What I do wrong, however, is strange, complex, and frightening. Let me begin to show you what that is.”
-John Gatto, Dumbing Us Down
FROM THE DESK OF
Stan D. Garde – Terminator of History
Dear Parents,
As a former history teacher who has recently suffered a tragic slip and fall in the Rockview Terminal parking lot, upon which I knocked my head quite soundly, putting me out of commission for no little while, I have lately had the opportunity to reflect on the good life as we know it here in Rockview Terminal.[1]
Especially if you are a parent new to the region and possess children of Terminal age, this modest handbook should provide valuable insight into the nature and quality of education in our local Terminals.
Before I begin to describe the Terminal I know best, Rockview, where I happily taught before my tragic slip and fall in the parking lot, let me note that Rockview Terminal has been so named ever since the word “high” was banned from language by Congress during one of this country’s many brave battles in the ongoing war against certain drugs and their deviant users and dealers.[2]
Thus, as is the case throughout the country these days, the former h*** school at Rockview is now referred to as the Terminal at Rockview.
Likewise, we teachers scarcely refer to ourselves as such anymore.
Instead, we go by the title Terminator, which we greatly prefer.
You may recall a minor protest to these legal and linguistic reformations years ago, but rest easy, dear parents, that in Rockview Terminal and the surrounding area, there has been no serious protest of any size in a decade or so, not since this ugly sort of thing was smashed during the Great Repression, after some sad misguided soul actually made a picket sign and wedged it into his cement patch on Main Street to protest the government granting corporations the right to meter air in houses.
Fortunately, our well-trained youth cause little fuss these days.
With your loyal ever-loving help we do all that is possible upon this Incorporated Dearth to give our children the most modern and efficient of mental cleansings.
Please note that you must make every effort, as responsible parents and mature adults, to keep this book out of the hands of youth.[3]
As you will see, I have written this book for thoroughly cleansed minds only – mature adult minds, naturally.
May all peace and profit be with you always, dear parents.
As we like to say here in the happy confines of Rockview Terminal: Go Terminal Go!
Fully yours,
Stan D. Garde
Stan D. Garde
Terminator of History
FROM THE DESK OF
Jay Cage – Superinterminent of Terminals
Dear Parents,
Welcome to friendly Rockview Terminal!
This parent handbook overviews the top quality educational atmosphere of Rockview Terminal.[4]
Here in lovely Rockview we never forget that our children are our greatest resource, and we do everything in our power to make sure that our children are mentally cleansed, as thoroughly and as efficiently as possible.
This great task of the Terminals is one we are sure that you as responsible parents and loyal consumers abide by entirely.
Disclaimer One: Under no circumstances may Rockview Terminal be held responsible for any learner’s failure to conform.
Disclaimer Two: Failure to abide by Terminal rules may result in expulsion, impairment, or worse.
Disclaimer Three: No so-called Bill of Rights applies in this Terminal or in any other.[5]
Finally, dear parents, if you ever feel the need for further information about the nature of your child’s interment in this quality institution, please consult this handbook,[6] written by our very own Terminator of History, Stan D. Garde.
Or feel free to contact anyone in our entire fleet of lawyers at 1-800-TERMINAL.
May you always profit!
And may your children reach the utter heights of mental cleansing, now and forevermore.
Yours in power,
Jay Cage
Jay Cage
Superinterminent of Terminals
TERMINAL SPACE
Rockview Terminal consists primarily of two main areas, both of which are heavily patrolled by Terminators. The main area is the electronica room, or e-room, sometimes called the vast room, housing all the computers – the “fry” room, in loyal-consumer-in-training lingo.
Some years ago the district realized it could save money by simply removing all the walls between rooms and constructing one vast central learning complex.
This also allowed the population of the Terminal to rise considerably without the need to add on or build anew.
And such massive display of centralism makes everyone feel more chummy than ever before, here in the “fry” room.
The other main area is the training room, with its many pacing stations – known to lcit, we Terminators are humored to note, as the “Treadmills From Hell.”
Strikingly, a substantial number of lcit prefer the training room to the e-room. The training room consists of multiple running stations upon which lcit are required to pace for an hour each day at their heart-rates’ limit. A distinct minority of loyal-consumers-in-training are urged into great competitions against one another – they pace for hours like world-class athletes until their very hearts are about to explode, while Terminators on duty smartly flog any lcit who quit or topple off the station.
The importance of the training room for all lcit has been emphasized in the Terminal ever since Ambulatory Motion was dropped from the curriculum years ago. Subsequently, it was found that lcit need some kind of physical tutoring to go along with the mental mastering, if their bodies are to be capable of sitting upright in front of a computer all day, let alone be able to work a serf wage job in the morning or evening, or both – in addition to sitting at attention in front of that great commerce machine of our times, the TV, late at night and on weekends.
The only, perhaps, negative side effect[7] of the training room, as far as we Terminators can tell, is the extra-strong straps that had to be installed in the e-room to prevent disruptive lcit from using newfound stamina and strength to break out. The straps are now threaded with steel.
An electric current is sometimes required.
Sadly, these unbreakable restraints contribute to the occasional sprained wrist, strained elbow, and dislocated shoulder in some of the more inexplicably rebellious lcit.
I have seen even a grotesque dislocated hip or two in my time.
Honestly, I have no idea what makes these lcit act the way they do. They seem to think they are undergoing some kind of cruel and unusual punishment merely by showing up at Terminal gates in the morning.
As if we do not mentally cleanse the lcit for their own good![8]
TERMINAL CRUCIFIXION
As if we do not crucify them in their own best interest!
Out back is where we crucify the students – the loyal-consumers-in-training, I mean. The lcit.
Actually, out back is mainly where we crucified the lcit – those who have most seriously erred – but times being what they are now, the lcit more rebellious than can be imagined, we crucify them all over the Terminal and Terminal grounds.
There seems to be an inevitable rhythm to the crucifixions.
This stern punishment arises from incidents that arrive in clusters around the holidays, near the beginnings and endings of the Terminal year, semesters, and months and weeks.
Also, the beginnings and endings of exam periods, days, and classes are particularly fraught with tension and volatility.
Not to mention to different degrees every moment in between.
We find remedial crucifixion necessary for lcit crimes deemed especially heinous, such as duct-taping over forehead ID bar codes and other subversive behavior, like excessive cooperation and socializing.[9]
Rockview Terminal is more prone to crucifixions nowadays, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with the greater rates the Terminal is able to command from advertisers who attempt to peddle their brand name attention deficit disorder drugs at these lamentable yet festive events. After driving the nails into the hands and feet and leaving the errant lcit hanging for the better part of a day, a Terminal security agent then drives a painted fluorescent orange, two-foot-long, three-inch-wide steel spike through the center of the condemned lcit’s forehead, into the wooden post behind.
There is talk among advertisers of electronically lighting up the tip of the spike after it is driven through the skull or otherwise brightening the advertisement, in an effort to get the message to really sink in.
I often wonder why people sometimes object to the amount of money corporate advertisers willingly pay for the three-inch spot on the head of the spike. The pharmaceutical company that manufactures the Real-Lite pills that best calm the loyal-consumers-in-training, Real-Lite Incorporated,[10] pays top dollar to help remind everyone that allowing natural body chemistry to simply run free – that is, out of control – can result in dire consequences for everyone concerned. I say, let big business pay for the remedial spike through the head. (To me, it's a no-brainer.)
As a final warning about the dangers of personal freedom and the financial-chemical remedy for this dread state of being, Real-Lite corporation in conjunction with the Terminal hangs a colorful banner over the head of the crucified lcit displaying different pill sizes and strengths for sale.
Behind the Terminal is still the preferred place to carry out crucifixions. That’s where visitors may find a permanent assortment of three cross sizes – small, medium, and large, for elementary, junior Terminal, and full Terminal lcit – several small crosses, a few more large crosses, and nearly two dozen junior Terminal crosses, since by far the vast majority of all infractions occur at the junior Terminal age. Who knows why – for some reason, freedom seems to max out at the stage at which the body and mind begin to mature.
After the unfortunate lcit is spiked through the head, to the cross, the body is left to hang until it rots and thoroughly disintegrates. Eventually the bones fall into a heap below. There is quite a mound of skeletal parts behind Rockview Terminal by now. Sometimes we catch an lcit or two loitering out back, wistfully kicking through the bones, as if reminiscing, maybe searching for the skull of an old elementary chum or a junior Terminal buddy.
More frequently we find a couple of boys sword-fighting with thigh bones – not unlike the Terminators who often spar with training room whips – a pleasure to watch.
Nevertheless, such freelance sport earns the young warriors an automatic trip to the smashing block, where security agents sometimes go easy on them, seeing younger versions of themselves.
They joke with the thigh-bone duelers in an effort to cheer them up, then smash only a fingertip or two.
On occasion, out back among the bones, we’ll catch an lcit couple in the act of something more intimate. This offense leads straight to the isolation rooms, naturally.
We Terminators generally allow, even encourage, loyal-consumers-in-training to think no one patrols the crucifixion area with any regularity. On the contrary, there is no more peaceful spot near which Terminators like to take their breaks than out back overlooking the crosses, skulls, and bones.
I must admit, I am especially drawn to the place as well. My youngest son recently met his sorry fate there on the cross, after he was caught cheating on a math test – a minor crime, one might think, but he was a repeat offender, I am sad to report.
After all of my son’s trips to the smashing block, psychiatrist office, and isolation rooms, after all the head resizings, electrical stimulants, and Real-Lite doses, the poor boy seemed scarcely functional anymore, that is, no more functional than before. The crucifixion turned out to be for the best, really, an outright mercy. He was so far gone I don’t think even the final spike through the forehead was terribly necessary.
Every once in awhile I’ll go out and lay a red rose on the pile of bones and wonder if anything could have been engineered differently to salvage my dear son’s life.
Alas, despite having graduated with distinction from the Terminal years ago, I have no idea.
At least, my dearly departed son has served as a vivid example to us all.
I find this to be no small consolation.
TERMINAL ISOLATION
Owned and operated by MarchRite corporation at a bracing but reasonable price, the isolation rooms at Rockview Terminal take full advantage of the most modern in corrections technology.
I mention the isolation rooms first before any other part of our beloved Terminal to assure concerned parents and local loyal consumers that they do indeed exist. The supposed absence of such rooms at other so-called “tolerant” Terminals outside our district is mere rumor, I suspect.
How any Terminal could make do without active sets of isolation rooms is far beyond my capacity to comprehend, especially since isolation so well modifies disobedient behaviour in the never-ending process of tutoring youth, who plainly are inherently dysfunctional.[11]
For most loyal-consumers-in-training, simply keeping them sitting alone at their desks proves to be enough of a constraint on any sort of demoralized interaction, while teaching the indispensable lesson that we are all thrown into this teeming world on our own, and on our own we must remain to become a productive success in life.
But for those incomprehensibly slow learners and obstinate types who do not readily perceive the wisdom of sitting alone and orderly at their work-stations throughout the day, the isolation rooms are ever ready to teach a handy lesson.
As may be supposed, isolation makes for a welcome remedial effect even on the good kids, who, when feeling a little overwhelmed on any given Terminal day, are prone to imagine they are “stressing” or “freaking out.” A brief stint in isolation helps clear their minds rather quickly.
Unfortunately, isolation can only do so much. It cannot entirely stamp out those many real or, more likely, imagined baffling psychological disorders from which even our good kids sometimes like to pretend they are suffering.
For example, it never fails that every other day at least – that is, after each official grading period – and upon any one of the many melodic blasts of the Terminal bells which indicate changes in the lessons or the end of a test, a handful of loyal-cons-in-training begin moaning and frothing at the mouth, due to what they like to believe is stress, and so we Terminators order them out to isolation where they are quickly shocked back to their senses.
Though the normally good loyal-consumers-in-training do not receive the full trauma treatment that the isolation rooms reserve for the more typically bad loyal-consumers-in-training, these lcit do return to study noticeably quieter or are even completely withdrawn for a time – a welcome remedial effect that allows them to refocus on their work in short order.
Appropriate notice is sent to parents when a loyal-consumer-in-training goes into full isolation. Unlike other negligent Terminals, Rockview, I am proud to note, has not permanently lost, so to speak, more than a handful of loyal-consumers-in-training yet.
In any case, only the truly hard-core, bad lcit are in danger of being permanently lost to isolation – an lcit, for example, who is late turning in three or more assignments in a row.
The good loyal-cons-in-training, who may endure only an hour or two in the isolation rooms, like to come out pretending to look haggard and beat-up and about forty pounds thinner just to keep up an impression with their more rebellious peers – but they are capable now at last of sitting firmly in front of the computer and working straight through any distraction however large.[12]
Meanwhile, the eyes of the other good lcit grow just a little more opaque, while the eyes of the more typically bad lcit tend to slant more into thin slits.
Every treatment has its side effects.
It should not necessarily be considered shameful to be thrown into the isolation rooms as long as the reason for getting tossed inside is the weakness of a good kid, and not the arrogance of the bad.
Those who are proud of their stints in the isolation room due to some demented irrational superiority complex, the truly incorrigible…well, honestly, all we Terminators can hope to do for these bad lcit is to simply grind them down. Even if we wanted to help…and help…and help, and even if these deluded youth really wanted our assistance, we simply don’t have the time – not with several hundred loyal-consumers-in-training per Terminator to patrol at any given moment.
It is my firm belief that these incorrigible loyal-cons-in-training would be much better off if we Terminators were simply allowed to expel them at a much faster rate. Fortunately the Terminal’s dropout rate hovers at a healthy 60 percent, near the national average for certain populations these days, which takes care of many behavioral problems quite nicely.
Not infrequently, we Terminators select lcit at random and toss them into the isolation rooms for brief refreshings.
This time-honored corrective makes for a potent tonic to all our lcit. One of the Terminal's many charitable traditions.
I simply do not see how the Terminal could ever get along without the isolation rooms. In fact I am aware of a number of families who have moved into the Rockview Terminal district due to our awesome reputation gained by the masterly use of isolation.
Without isolation rooms – which no one who has never been sent there has ever seen, and anyone who has ever endured the experience never talks about – I am afraid to know what kind of educational facility Rockview Terminal might degenerate into.
Certainly, our ability to educate effectively, to mentally cleanse, would be sorely diminished.
Instead, we discipline and bless all our loyal-cons-in-training with the proper heavy doses of isolation.[13]
TERMINAL ELECTRONICA
Why it is difficult to retain qualified and competent Terminators, even at the best Terminals, I have no idea.
That said, the salaries are not lofty by corporate standards, especially among the cooks, custodians, aides, technicians, security agents, nurses, orderlies, anesthesiologists, counselors, diagnosticians, and bus drivers, not to mention the Terminators – even the physicians and psychologists are paid low wages by corporate measures.
But given the prices corporations are charging for potable air these days, few of us care to face the insecurity that comes with attempting to change to less penny-pinched nonterminal jobs.
In Rockview Area Terminal District as in most other Terminal type sectors, Terminal funds go primarily not to human wages, but to electronica.
While corporations have so far resisted the oft-suggested idea that they completely “take over” the Terminals, we may at least be content for now that there never seems to be any shortage of funds flowing out to corporations in exchange for their electronic wonders, at least in the better equipped Terminals such as ours.
Rockview Terminal is state of the art in all ways.
We do however maintain some of the heart-warming classic touches, such as our brick guard shack, plus the electrified fence that challenges the occasional loyal-consumer-in-training who makes a mad dash for the far outside during lunch, almost always a suicide option (the escape attempt, that is, not lunch so much anymore, given the newly available, Terminal-supplied antidote for internal bleeding: Regurgicake[TM]).
Thus it is that Rockview Terminal finds itself rather well stocked, fortified even, with the usual electronic educational and enforcement gear: all the clamorous bells, whistles, computers, printers, virtual reality machines, and a thousand other related wonders that most Terminators would not know how to administer if it were not for the more mechanized loyal-consumers-in-training amongst us.
Moreover the Terminal is fully standardized with TVs, recorders, megaphones, and megaloud public address speakers, cameras, sensors, scanners, and electronically operated wall mounted lasers, which were installed to reduce the number of security agents that need to be employed in maintaining control of Terminal grounds.
Then there are the ever-at-hand electric and electronic prods, tranquilizing darts, and assorted other motivational devices of order and stability that clank against the belts of the security agents and the Terminators as they patrol the rooms and grounds, though the grounds are patrolled more out of a sense of nostalgia these days, a nostalgia for those bucolic bygone times when an agent or Terminator might walk around the corner of the building, find a straggling lcit, and give him or her a good hot blast with the classic bone-burning laser.
Although the security agents’ modern portable lasers are also proven bone breakers, by now they are up to fifty percent less lethal than earlier models. Greater improvements are expected every few years.
Unfortunately, it seems that as the Terminal gains assorted electronica, we lose assorted Terminators – until today the average class size has become what it is (all inclusive) and the lcit-to-teacher ratio hovers at about 500 to 1.
Happily, there is never a shortage of funds for electronica, and so I am certain that Rockview Terminal itself is one of the smartest Terminals on the planet – though the lcit seem to struggle as much as ever.[14]
Truly, I am glad for all the electronica, even if I do not know how to fire up half of it. On the other hand, I do sometimes wish for certain aspects of the old days, when each Terminator was in charge of a few less lcit and we had access to a few more rooms and areas in which to herd our lcit about.[15]
I even miss the old wild west feel of the halls, where there was always some rodeo-like excitement to be found. Oh, for the days of the lusty noise of free-roaming youths milling between classes!
Of course now there is considerably less blood splattered upon the walls, due to the new holstering laws for the security agents’ lasers.
But mostly, I think, the reduced carnage rate is due to the lack of lcit movement, thus the absence of potentially suspicious moving targets for our security agents and Terminators with itchy fingers.
I say there is less spilt blood, but in all honesty I am not sure of it.
I think the Screaming Pad has made up for most of what has been lost in the former free-for-all of the halls. And no one dares guess, wonder, or recall what happens in the new and improved isolation rooms.
Perhaps it is just that the blood spilt in our time flows out in a more efficient and hidden manner than ever before, in a more technologically intricate and more controlled environment of intense mental cleansing.
A worthy improvement, no doubt.
Anything, after all, is preferable to the primitive chaos of the old pens, papers, books, and hall walking; even, I suppose, if the Terminal does often feel now with all this new electronica – more sophisticated, yes – but somehow, overall, a bit more bland and predictable, unnaturally still and – quiet, too quiet – and, well, sort of eerie.
TERMINAL FALL
In addition to explaining the exciting life-enriching operations of Rockview Terminal, I would also like to reveal some of the lesser-known sides of the Terminal that I have had the good experience to get to cherish recently.
In this way I hope to give an even more informative character to this Terminal overview.
It so happens that after being a Terminator for many years, I suffered an accident not long ago while walking in from the Terminal parking lot: I slipped and fell on a treacherous patch of gravel, knocking my head rather badly on ground. There were those who said I would never recover, and they couldn't believe it when I did. "He never should have made it back."
I was delighted to return to the Terminal – regrettably not in my former role as official Terminator but in more unofficial capacity as an auxiliary hire working with the custodians, at least initially.
Perhaps the only noticeable side effect of my fall is that I often feel a strong desire to talk constantly, that is incessantly, continuously, all the time. I can practically never stop my interminable jabbering even while eating.
Lately, to relieve some of this pressure to express, which stems from I know not where, I have begun marking down the delightful course of my days in an electronic journal from which this handbook springs.
During my time as custodian, I talked to the toilets while scrubbing and did not mind or even particularly notice when the head custodian assigned me all the toilet scrubbing duties after I continued to express my heartfelt appreciation for this job, any job, given my recent ill luck.
True, the other custodians mostly kept their distance from me, but could I help it if I felt the need to talk a lot? Could I help that I was once a Terminator? This seemed to unnerve some of the more bashful custodians. I successfully Terminated a couple of them a few years back, and I think they have had some slight difficulty adjusting to our new relationship.
I try to remind them that we were all loyal-consumers-in-training at one point, however long ago.
Can't we all just get along? Are we not all as one, here in merry Rockview?[16]
TERMINAL HUMOR
The Terminal is not an entirely serious place.
For instance, the lcit find plenty of humor in constantly zapping instant messages and electronic notes to one another. The Terminal puts up with a precise percentage of such behavior, for in the proper amount, e-notes have been found to activate the energy needed to learn, or to at least reduce the number of lcit who periodically lock up, catatonic.
Lcit who exceed their quota of e-notes during any given week receive an electric shock (an instructive charge), sent automatically from the main computer to the appropriate workstation. Any bone dislocations due to jolting against straps are carefully attended by onsite medical staff, although these gentle reminders usually merely stun and immobilize a loyal-consumer-in-training for a minute or two. It does sting a bit, on the fingertips, and so lcit do not often exceed their e-note quotas.
The electric charge is increased for any subsequent violation per week. A second such shock leaves the fingertips smoldering, and a third shock completely blackens the palms yet leaves lcit able to resume typing after an hour of icing and recovery in the emergency room. In a few days, the charred skin falls off and the hands must be carefully bandaged until scar tissue forms and the lcits' full typing capacity is restored. (Synthetic fireproof copies of lcit original fingertips are reattached surgically so as to not lose any vital identifying markers.)
Perhaps the most common source of humor among our lcit, aside from their near complete absorption in the entertainment industries, the e-media (or is it i-media? I can scarcely keep up) and various corporate-driven activities outside the Terminal, is the use of their personal rubbing pads. Since lcit arms and hands are strapped to the keyboards, all workstations are equipped with a rubbing pad that lcit can swing into place by using a lever near their feet, to rub an itchy nose, to wipe sweat from the brow, to daub tears from the eyes.
On occasion, the foot of an lcit will unexpectedly twitch and the rubbing pad will swing over and smack the lcit in the face. At this moment anyone sitting within a diameter of several dozen workstations of this clumsy lcit is apt to deluge the unfortunate bumbler with a horde of jokes – “Have a nice twitch? See you next stitch!” “And your mother’s name is Grace...” And so on. Jokes tend to be fairly mild because the isolation rooms await those who go too far.
Even a large number of lcit sitting in front of the blunderer will hear or sense what has happened and send their own e-notes back, guessing at the appropriate workstation. Paybacks can be hell, but the injured and embarrassed lcit can only respond to a relatively small number of messages and keep within quota for the week.
Of anything remotely Terminal-related, the e-note quotas are what lcit talk about obsessively, incessantly, during lunch and in instant messages – keeping within weekly quota; quota concerns; the number and quality of notes they receive each hour, each day, each week; what to do with their remaining quota, when to spend the quota, how to spend it, and on whom.
The e-notes are closely monitored by the mainframe. Unlawful and obscene words are flagged and offending lcit are punished, just as they are for using any words at any time that have been declared off-limits specifically to loyal-consumers-in-training, especially words that are or may be legally construed as “enemies of the Incorporated Estates of Dearth and the Terminals and institutions of culture and authority in general.” Words such as – activist, solidarity, justice, equality, fairness, sharing, peace … and any word used in “an insubordinate context,” even words such as “dove” used to indicate peace, or “truth” used to suggest an unofficial idea of reality, and so on.
Though there has been an all-out effort among the most devout citizens of this flag-waving country to get the word “truth” banned from Terminals and indeed general use altogether, the logistics have not yet been worked out.
Unfortunately, our experiments so far show that it does little good to simply replace “truth” with a more responsible word such as, say, “reality.” For example, readily acknowledged and accepted by the IED is the reality of life rather than any so-called truth, let alone justice. Any denial of health care is simply too bad, not a crime; unaffordable education may be a shame but is no scandal; world leading rates of imprisonment (especially of the poor and of people of color) is just the way things are, never mind why it might be; and world-leading rates of military expenditures are an unvarnished blessing, as far as I can see, no cause for concern. This is all just reality, whatever any supposed truth or injustice, which is of essentially no value in the IED. Truth? Justice? These are scarcely functional for profit, if at all. Not like reality is. So tthat's how things should be. Any good loyal consumer in the IED will agree. There remains a problem, however.
Unfortunately, the new word “reality,” no matter how hard we Terminators try, somehow soon comes to regain much of the troublesome original meanings of the offensive word. A difficult fight. For example, when claiming to speak the “truth” too many malcontents like to say, “Just keeping it real, brother” – “Keep it real, sister.” – "Just keeping it real, my man. ” When you know they don't mean reality at all but instead are subversively referring to what they think of as the “truth.”
Even attempting to replace “true” with its literal opposite, “false,” has proven to be less than effective. “Hey, right on, Dude, that’s totally false and kickin’ man.” You see? “False” becomes “true,” “true” becomes false. “Bad” becomes “good,” “good” becomes “bad” – “They got him, they got him good.” “All right! That’s the baddest thing I ever seen!”
In many ways, controlling lcit language is a hopeless losing battle. It can seem like more trouble than it’s worth – everyone, I think, who is sufficiently honest with themselves realizes this – but it’s a battle we must fight nevertheless, for it is one of the most crucial battles constantly waged in the Terminals.
This ongoing war for the control, that is, the education, of the unruly lcit mind, must be forever waged if we are to maintain the happy status quo of society. But I digress from the quotas –
Lcit may petition – electronically, individually – for volt-resistant gloves if they carelessly go over quota twice in a week and are in imminent danger of having their palms blackened and scarred for life. These petitions are successful a fraction or so of the time, I should say, depending upon good behavior in other ways.
The lcit even have a gruesome humor they reserve for selected lcit who have already received two shocks in a given week. If these unfortunate lcit are not popular, they may be deluged by provocative e-notes, which the over-the-quota lcit can in no way respond to.
Be assured that under such circumstances these lcit are not unstrapped for lunch for fear they might retaliate physically against their fellow teasers. However, federal guidelines still require that we feed and water all lcit who request it – almost regardless of behavior, believe it or not. This is the job of the aides, to hold up a cup with a straw and to pop a few pellets of microfood into the mouths of the restrained lcit, if they so desire.
Unfortunately, such an occasion usually makes these lcit the butt of even more aggressive jokes. It’s sad but true – the loyal-consumers-in-training can be oh so ruthless – it’s distressing really. We Terminators remain completely baffled by where and from whom our lcit learn such barbaric ways.[17]
TERMINAL INSURANCE
Insurance is one of the great blessings of modern Terminal life and of all life across this benevolent society of ours.
These days, the Terminal even provides basic insurance free of charge. This includes coverage for minor corrections and their side effects that most loyal-consumers-in-training experience at one time or another – smashed fingers, blackened palms, whip lashing infections, random dislocations, stress-induced delirium, laser burns to the brow, and other necessary concomitants of modern education.
The Terminal does not itself cover major trauma and debilitations, such as broken bones in the cranium or elsewhere, extended seizures – psychological or otherwise – pre or post isolation paralysis – mental or physical – or amputation. However, extensive coverage may be purchased at extra charge, and is well worth it. Recommended.
Formerly known as death insurance – Final Lcit Departure (FLDI) Insurance is mandatory. Compared to other Terminals its size, Rockview Terminal admits to rather low rates of FLDI, but some such risk is inherent, given the standards set in our beloved Terminal and society in general.
And of course no small risk is incurred by ingesting lunch, let alone the toll exacted by rote pacing, by the stress and threat of isolation, and by those always adventurous visits to the psychologists, by prescription drug mixups, mismatches, complications in the Terminal health room, et cetera and so on, not forgetting side effects exacted by lasers, needles, electrified fences (often invisible), unexpected power surges, invigorating course contents, and, well, just the basic day to day demands of life as we know it here in the happy confines of Rockview Terminal.
And as the example of my dearly departed beloved son shows so poignantly, the possibility of remedial crucifixions can never be fully discounted when considering insurance needs for daily attendance in the Terminal.
My special advice to parents – buy that insurance. It’s about the only blessed thing one can count on in life and death anymore – those insurance policy payoffs – assuming one ultimately qualifies.
Most families wisely purchase every extra bit of insurance they can, or cannot, afford. In much demand is what used to be known as life insurance, and is now sold through the Terminal’s popular and generous reprieve-from-death plan, commonly known by its acronym, SCULL (Standard Coverage Underwriting Long Life) and by its catchy trademark motto, “Don’t go Terminal without it!” 1-800-BUY-SCULL.
Whenever I think of my son and the joy he must have felt during his happy brief time in the Terminal, I've always been grateful we fully insured him.
Lcit everywhere would do well to obtain the most advanced insurance plans they can possibly afford.[18]
Happily, our dear lcit are unlikely ever to forget such thoughtful, caring commitment to their total well-being, for which we the dutiful functionaries, concerned parents, and responsible loyal consumers of Rockview Terminal may feel justly proud.
TERMINAL CHEER
“Go Terminal Go! Go Terminal Go! Go Terminal Go!”
Some people, not from around here, have suggested that this slogan is a little too bland, too indistinct and seems to refer to all Terminals in general. However, we like it.
We Terminators, loyal consumers, and loyal-consumers-in-training feel that this cheer is wholesome, yet edgy, and to the point, just like all the other Terminal oaths and pledges.
Occasionally we even change the order of the words, for example: “Terminal! Go! Go!” or “Go! Go! Terminal!” An absolute thrill to hear – the excitement is positively contagious!
If only my dearly departed son had kept this profound cheer more firmly in mind and taken it more deeply to heart, how different things might have been.
Go! Terminal Go![19]
TERMINAL CUSTODIANS
One day I brought a push broom with two handles to the Terminal so that two custodians could share the work and enjoy one another’s company while doing so.
The custodians seemed rather intrigued by my invention, making a number of curious remarks about its innovative design:
“Never seen a thing like it.”
“Don’t give my husband any ideas.”
“Looks like something my wife would cook up.”
“What in the hell?”
The head custodian came by hollering at us for gathering together without his permission, then stopped short when he saw my clever contraption.
“Well, what in the almighty name of this godforsaken world do we have here?”
He seemed rather piqued, I thought. And yet … spellbound, with … wonder.
So I explained.
He nodded and gazed absently into my eyes as if dazed. He seemed dazzled beyond words by the brilliance of my two-handled push broom’s powerful design.
“Just something I dreamed up once upon a time while tooling around with some Bunsen burners in the science lab.” I thought that might impress him.
“I see the connection.” He strode over to the storage room. "Bunsen burners. Broom." Then with a hacksaw, he sliced off both handles of my two handled push broom. He nodded. "Hacksaw."
At first, I tried to figure out why he did that.
Eventually I was forced to conclude that the head custodian knew something more than I, but what that might be, I ponder to this day.
Afterwards, with great Terminal spirit and pride, I swept my way into every Terminal nook and cranny, gladly pushing my broom, alone.
TERMINAL RACE
Rockview Terminal suffers no race or ethnic problems, despite what has historically been the case here and elsewhere, because Rockview Area Terminal District takes great care to make sure that all loyal-consumers-in-training have been thoroughly cleansed of race.
Before registering with the District, prospective lcit are required to submit to an examination in which it must be demonstrated that for several years they have been taking race medications, such as All Clear™ or any certified race-free brand that turns one’s skin into a pure medium gray colorlessness and virtually eliminates those stubbornly distinct facial features, unique hair colors, and peculiar body types.[20] You can buy it online or get it anywhere really, in the official realms of the IED.
As in so many other Terminals these days, all of our loyal-consumers-in-training have pure gray skin, pure gray eyes, purely non-distinctive faces and bodies and pure gray hair, cut moderately short or modestly short, either length. I find that this pervasive grayness complements quite well the brilliant red-white-and-blue dress code that loyal-consumers-in-training are required to adhere to, on Terminal grounds. It's nice and comforting that all the lcit look like one-size walking flags. This way, everybody can relate to everybody else, all stripes and official colors, ever vibrant in our happy star-spangled IED uniform of sanctioned cheer.
We Terminators and loyal-cons-in-training need our red-white-and-blue electronica decoders (available for a modest fee) to tell everyone apart from everyone else.
Thus with a simple wave off our Terminal wand of electronica, everyone remains officially identifiable to one another by the bar codes sewn tight to our good lcit foreheads.
Constant tracking of our loyal-consumers-in-training is no problem given the computer chip implanted into the palm of each lcit, which remains with them forever, unless replaced for an upgrade or due to malfunction from an especially severe burned palm infraction.
After graduation, or upon becoming a legal adult at age thirty-three, or upon getting married, whichever comes last, race medication is discontinued. Nevertheless, our youth nowadays will remain essentially featureless and of a more-or-less indeterminate race, color, and shape their entire lives, though enough slight change eventually occurs to render bar codes more-or-less superfluous, for the especially keen-eyed, sooner or later. Of course, the computer chip is used to check in and out of corporate headquarters, consuming venues, and sleeping abodes each day and night.
Fear not! All races are as one here at lovely Rockview. We are justly proud that visitors have no idea that Rockview was once an extremely diverse ethnic area. Fortunately, everyone in and around Rockview Terminal has at long last melted into one great red-white-and-blue and gray lump.
The only problem that seems to occur with bar code implants is that from time to time an as yet undiagnosed malady strikes our more sensitive loyal-consumers-in-training. This illness causes them to rip the bar codes off their foreheads, sometimes tearing out whole strips of skin and flesh. Fortunately our state-of-the-art Terminal emergency room and our ample staff of psychologists are completely equipped and fully trained to deal with these unfortunate insane outbursts.
Rockview Terminal is generously insured for cosmetic surgery and bar code repair, just as it is covered for so many of the other unpredictable regularly occurring illnesses and trauma from which our youth suffer so much these days – race, however, no longer being much of an issue, happily, anymore.
TERMINAL TV
Fortunately for the good of society, no steel threaded straps have as yet been found necessary to keep at least most loyal-consumers-in-training clamped firmly in front of TV each evening. A wonderful corporate-developed vapor-lock glue emitting from each TV screen seems to serve this purpose quite well.
The vapor is usually broken up intermittently to allow our loyal-consumers-in-training a chance to snap out of their mesmerized states and go shopping for the latest fads they see advertised or, more likely nowadays, dramatized, in entertainment series – dramatization being a far more effect mode of mental cleansing than straightforward advertising. Without this sacred, time-honored rite of daily TV purification, it would be far more difficult to maintain and fine-tune the peak rates of brand-name consumption by which the health of any great society is judged.
Some youths are more stubborn than others however, avoiding TV and their daily dose of officially sanctioned narcissism and violence more often than not. Not to worry, these rebels get a hefty dose of brain-cleansing in myriad other ways – corporate music, movies, magazines, video games, and other such instructive fixations.
Of course for the properly insured there are plenty of often nonlethal antidepressants and other treatments available for the unfortunate resultant pathologies and neuroses that occur over the course of a lifetime spent in thrall to this necessary bombardment. For the uninsured who attempt to secure treatment illegally, there are prisons. Fortunately these days, the U.S. spends more money on prisons than on Terminals.[21]
Contrary to a once popular complaint, no one is forgotten in this society. All are dutifully taken care of, some by the prison system, some by the education system, while the lines between the two continue to blur as architectural blueprints, teaching techniques, and crowd control methods in education continue to be heavily borrowed from the incarceration industry and the military.
But I digress, yet again –
When not happily narcotized in front of TV, our loyal-consumers-in-training can most commonly be found working corporate serf-wage jobs, which for the most part require lcit to labor largely for the sole purpose of acquiring the pricey transportation needed to get to the job itself.
O happy state of interlocked affairs! Nothing like going back to the good old days of serfdom where everyone knew their proper place and duty.
O happy obedient and well disciplined masses!
At this point, society has positioned these loyal-consumers-in-training right where it wants them and really no further mental cleansing is necessary for most. They’ve already been terminated, in effect, if not in official Terminal fact.
At least this is what some astute loyal consumers argue, not at all unconvincingly – that for the vast majority of youth, the Terminals are a kind of irrelevant frill, since their probable rote futures have already been fixed in place, in loyal serf-wage service to the greater good of our free markets and enlightened society – a fantastic achievement that history will be proud to note.[22]
TERMINAL COOKS
The day came when the custodians appreciated my help so much that they did the cooks the favor of assigning me to the kitchen.
The cooks were happy to put me to work washing dishes with proclamations and welcomes all around:
“Welcome to the galley!”
“You’ll fit right in with the bubbles and the suds!”
Occasionally I was able to view that which was being processed for lunch. I must admit much of it appeared totally unrecognizable, composed of powders, liquids, pastes, and anonymous molds.
Well, who likes food with attitude?
I, for one, have always been grateful for whatever corporate produced pellets and feed have been piled in front of me.
Sustenance it is, and that’s all that really counts, no matter how redehydrated, pre-inglutenated, deintoxinated, tri-insecticated, bi-di-pesticated, or conhydrode-oxyreformupoly-tripliglutenated it may well be.[23]
I hear that corporate headquarters gets most of its food these days from organic farms and farmers’ markets but here in the Terminal, we are glad to get biweekly deliveries from the woman in the Mange-Rite food truck, who delivers to all the local Terminals, prisons, and sundry other factories.
Sometimes the driver says she gets mixed-up during her standardized-by-law sixteen hour workday – a full eight hours of which are generously counted toward her paycheck.
Often she forgets which institution she trundles her boxes into, but it doesn’t matter since we all get the same great grub anyway.
I do like kitchen duty, though after sweeping the floor I have difficulty understanding why I’m supposed to deposit the debris in a little plastic box called the Recycling Bin.
We all know that recycling – along with those maniacal efforts at rejecting, reducing, and reusing resources and materials – was outlawed years ago.
So I can’t figure out where the dust and dirt and grease and hairballs and assorted dead rodents are all recycled to...
However, in my ever normal effort of Just-Trying-To-Get-Along-To-Conform-And-Be-Virtuous-By-My-Obedience-No-Matter-What, I do my loyal-consumerly best to keep quiet about this peculiar practice in the kitchen, and Simply-Go-About-My-Business-As-Usual. To the cooks, after all, I must seem a mere loyal-consumer-in-training – and thus, it is appropriate and entirely understandable that I am no one to be asking questions of any sort whatsoever, no matter how peculiar, or, well, unappetizing, may appear the many mysteries of the Terminal kitchen.
TERMINAL LUNCH
For who-knows-what reason, most loyal-consumers-in-training do not eat lunch.
Those who do attempt to eat lunch are handed drinks, fast-food meals,[24] or various pellets in front of the computers, after the equipment is covered with plastic hoods.
Thus, happily, the lcit never need to separate from their workstations if they so choose.
Nevertheless, lunch is the one time in the day when the lcit are freed. They may get up and use the restroom then, nearly at will.
Almost everyone takes advantage of this extraordinary privilege by spending the entire ten minute lunch break standing in line supposedly to use the restroom but actually chatting idly with their friends or choking down a quick bite.
We Terminators allow this mild subterfuge, although there has been floated the conscientious idea of curtailing the lunch period to five minutes, and banning all use of the restroom. We have been trying to work out the logistics for years.
During lunch, Rockview Terminal generously provides loyal-consumers-in-training the option of purchasing plenty of pre-pressed fast food from the handful of heavily advertised transnational franchises in the e-room.
Likewise, lcit are offered all the brand name soda pop they can take, at great prices.
Of course, soda pop, as has been true for years, is much cheaper than pure water. And by now, for some reason, it is about all the lcit will drink.[25]
TERMINAL INFANTILIZATION
In the ongoing effort to improve the efficiency and productivity of loyal-consumers-in-training, there has been increasing talk of cutting back on the daily thumb sucking sessions – especially for lcit beyond age twelve.
I don't think it wise.
For I believe fervently that these regular lessons on the beauty of babyhood serve an indispensable function in our Terminals and society at large.
Why not thumb suck?
After all, tens of thousands of pages of stimulating online textbooks are easily flipped with the simple click of a button, using one hand, while the thumb of the other hand may be continuously drawn upon by the lips.
This helps keep things quiet.
Besides, our loyal-consumers-in-training are all greatly skilled at sucking the thumb of one hand while typing rapidly with the other.
If it were not for the mild drop in typing efficiency while thumb sucking, and possibly a mild dip in thought processing too, I suspect Rockview Terminal would have gone whole-heartedly to non-stop thumb sucking decades ago. We seem to be practically there already.
Tradeoffs, there are always tradeoffs to be considered in the never-ending struggle to mass produce the necessary standardized minds and standardized behaviors of good loyal-consumers-in-training.[26]
At least no one has suggested that Rockview Terminal do away entirely with thumb-sucking or with the normal double-thumb-sucking sessions that our loyal-consumers-in-training gladly participate in while watching their daily dose of in-Terminal advertising dramas and news. Now that would be treasonous, for Terminal TV displays the latest whorl of competing wonders of our fabulous corporate market economy so vital to maintaining, some tinkering aside, the blessed status quo of our land, our world, our veritable corporate garden paradise.
Terminal TV, an offshoot of corporate TV, also presents lcit with extremely selective information on all current events through the perspective that is proper for them to have and to hold dear.
You know it well and you love it, dear parents, that Terminal, corporate view. All together now: Go, Terminal, Go!
This heady dose of responsible input along with the daily thumb sucking sessions facilitates enormously the mental cleansing of even our most recalcitrant lcit.
In my opinion these sessions should continue as they currently do, until our lcit turn twenty-five or enter the nineteenth grade, at least. Otherwise, I fear, the intellectual and social atmosphere in the Terminal and much of society would quickly decay into ignorance and immaturity, into the epitome of barbarism.[27]
If loyal-consumers-in-training gave up thumb-sucking too early, they would have gained unearned independence from babyhood and thus be too weak to avoid being thrown headlong into moral decadence and hedonism the likes of which can scarcely be imagined, moral decadence being so relatively unknown in our adult culture, especially among the most well disciplined minds of our most prominent and prestigious citizens, who in their daily actions and policies make this world the most thoroughly great place to live that can possibly be imagined.
Continued mandatory thumb sucking is far more important to educational and social success than most people probably realize.
We need only take a simple look around to see how well compulsory thumb sucking has worked for so many lcit, officials, and good vassals everywhere, myself not least.[28]
TERMINAL EXPERTS
Let's learn!
Terminals all across the land were originally designed by universities and are still guided by the institutions today in a more or less symbiotic relationship.
My fellow Terminators and I are proud to note that virtually all outside experts consider Rockview to be a Gold Medal “Terminal of Electronica.”
Helped in large part by a nearly sixty percent dropout rate among our less affluent loyal-consumers-in-training, Rockview Terminal carefully cultivates the necessary atmosphere for intellectual conformity to the incorporated grid of good by acquiring choice technology to offer all of our increasingly mechanized lcit a growing variety of virtual reality courses from universities across the country.
Blessed were we when a prominent Professor of Education recently toured our modest facility and announced that the lcit represented the fulfilled joy of many of the brightest minds of education and technology in the universities. "Congratulations to all you lcit on your great Terminal achievements!"
Imagine how dismayed we were when the loyal-consumers-in-training simply stared blankly back at the Professor.
Some Terminator informed the Professor that if he wished to communicate directly with the lcit he should sit down at a computer and type into their mass message board, like we do ourselves, since the lcit rarely recognize any form of communication anymore other than electronic signals and flashes.
The kindly Professor promptly did so, and I am proud to note he instantly received hundreds of identical replies from the e-room and every loyal-consumer-in-training: “Thank You, Sir.”
Oh marvelous standardization!
Possibly there were a few recalcitrants who typed something different, but as the kindly Professor’s computer screen flooded with virtually nothing but “Thank You, Sir,” his eyes moistened and began to fill, with what I can only believe were tears of gratitude and profound appreciation.
Upon seeing the esteemed Professor so dearly, deeply touched, we Terminators got a little misty-eyed ourselves, for we had never been more proud of the superior quality of our work, as seen in the sheer discipline and exacting manners of our loyal-consumers-in-training. Hundreds of lcit and hundreds of identical answers! No variation whatsoever – the remarkable and much anticipated result of years of intensive standardized testing, training, Terminating!
It simply warms the heart and quickens the mind to know exactly what each lcit has ever thought, and what they are thinking now, and may likely ever think in the future, with scarcely any deviation whatsoever.
The future is bright, orderly, and it is ours – by design.[29] O blessed Terminal!
We Terminators set the great standard around Rockview, just as the universities, governments, corporations, parents, and loyal consumers everywhere encourage us, just as many of our lcit have learned only to desire and expect.
Standardization.[30]
We Terminators can imagine nothing more important that might be offered our lcit, and we are firm in our insistence upon providing absolutely nothing less. We pledge and devote our best effort to this end, in full good faith and the knowledge that we are right.
TERMINAL BUSES
Why our youth expect to be pampered and coddled is beyond my ability to comprehend.
After all we do for them, still they complain. I do not get it. I wonder who could?
Take, for example, the Terminal buses. Some loyal-consumers-in-training prefer not to ride the Terminal buses at all.
They complain about cramped quarters, hard and uncomfortable seats, jolting roads, freezing or scorching temperatures, and a thousand other fairy tales.
While the United Terminal Association has for some time asked a few of our finest corporations to address these complaints, the corporations – busy with important life-enhancing projects as they are, like ever increasing the variety of morning cereals, shampoos, and edible plastic snacks – at best have been slow to respond.
In fact, for several decades, there has been no response at all.
Recently however, the Incorporated Estates have suggested as a briliant practical alternative, simply painting the buses in exotic lcit-pleasing colors and designs, at added cost, to alleviate lcit concerns.
I for one whole-heartedly endorse this scheme, because I think that by repainting Terminal buses in dazzling designs (perhaps even patterns the loyal-consumers-in-training themselves select from our judicious offerings), Rockview Terminal will instill in our loyal-consumers-in-training a valuable lesson about limits, wishful thinking, and sensible compromise, which they will carry with them for the rest of their lives.[31]
TERMINAL SECURITY
Soon after I was observed to be observing ever more closely in the kitchen the unusual use being made of the filth and debris I was dutifully dumping into the Recycling Bin, the cooks decided I might be happier if I went to work with the security agents patrolling the inner Terminal and outer campus grounds.
My spirits greatly improved for a time since I was brought back into much more of the direct contact I was used to having with the loyal-consumers-in-training during my days as full-fledged Terminator.
It so happened that the security agents sized me up at first – and laughed. I must confess I still cannot understand exactly why. Something about my appearance must have pleased them.
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