The Unwritten Law
Ricky Gillespie was only seventeen years old when he was involved in a serious car accident that left him in a coma. After praying for their son's recovery for several weeks, Ricky's distraught parents were advised that the coma was irreversible. Given the hopeless prognosis, they signed the papers authorizing the hospital to discontinue life support. Afterward, the grieving parents went home and kept a silent vigil beside the phone, waiting to hear the pronouncement of their son's death. That call never came, however.
"Your boy is a fighter," the doctor told them the following morning. "His condition has stabilized, and his vital signs continue to improve."
"Will he come out of the coma?" his mother asked hopefully.
"It's a miracle your son is still alive. It will take a second and far greater miracle for him to come out of the coma."
Ricky was taken from the hospital and placed in a nursing home where he received nourishment through a feeding tube and his muscles were messaged daily to prevent atrophy. He was still in a coma twenty-two years later when his father passed away and two years after that when his mother died. The long-awaited second miracle did not occur until nearly five years after his mother breathed her last, but it did happen: Ricky Gillespie finally came out of his coma.
When he awakened from his long, death-like sleep, he found himself in a world much different from the one he had known at seventeen. Once he recovered from the shock of losing his family and finding himself a middle-aged man with no hope of recapturing his lost youth, he became extremely curious about his new world. He plied his doctors, nurses and therapists with hundreds of questions that they tried to answer to the best of their ability.
"It's amazing!" Ricky exclaimed with awe. "You no longer have any need for police, armies or courts of law."
"Not since our Great Awakening," his physical therapist explained. "You see, the wars in the Middle East that started when you were still a child gradually escalated. Shortly after you went into a coma, World War III broke out. The destruction was devastating and the loss of life on both sides was staggering. The war continued for years, creating both economic and environmental crises in all parts of the world, yet neither side was willing to admit defeat until eventually a wise man stepped forward and offered us all a new and better way of life. The old governments and institutions fell, and we awakened to a simple truth: we are all part of one group, and if we work for the good of the group, we all benefit."
This age-old theme of "one for all and all for one" seemed to be carried out in every phase of daily life. For instance, people were no longer able to choose a career based on personal preference. Rather, people were trained for an occupation according to their ability and the demand in a given field. Accordingly, there were no longer any social distinctions to separate a manual laborer from a highly educated professional; doctors, mechanics, teachers, cooks, janitors and assembly line workers were all valued equally since they all served a needed function in the modern utopia.
"What about money?" Ricky asked. "Surely doctors still make more than janitors."
"Since the Great Awakening, there is no need for money. We all work for the good of our fellow man and are rewarded in return."
Confusion clouded Ricky's face.
The therapist went on to explain, "Everyone in our society either manufactures a product or performs a service, and these goods and services are free to others. Since we have what we want readily available to us, there is no greed."
Ricky was delighted to be living in a world he considered vastly superior to the one he had left behind. The social injustices of his day had been eliminated. This perfect society, this brave new world—to borrow a phrase from Huxley—had no crime, no war, no hatred and no discrimination.
* * *
A month after waking from his coma, Ricky was released from the hospital. His legs, though they tended to ache when he stood for long periods of time, would satisfactorily do their job despite their long years of inactivity. Upon his discharge, he was given a loose-fitting pair of blue pants and a plain, white pull-over shirt—an outfit identical to that worn by every other man, woman and child he encountered—and was taken to a career assignment facility. There he was put through a series of written and physical tests that indicated he would be well suited to a position in the field of electronics. After reviewing his test analysis, the young woman at the assignment office referred to a list of job openings in the area.
"I don't suppose you have anything out west?" he asked hopefully. "I always wanted to go to California when I was younger."
"Whatever for? One place is the same as any other," the woman replied. "Besides, we go where we are needed most. There are quite a few places here in the Northeast where a man with your abilities can serve society."
Ricky realized then that the idea of working for the good of the group and the actual practice of that concept were quite different. It might take him a little while to get used to such selfless obedience.
"Here we are—a perfect match. We have a need for a repair technician at electrical utilities plant number 11042. You will begin tomorrow. And here," she said, reaching into her desk drawer and pulling out a large envelope, "is your living accommodations assignment. You will, of course, be given a single unit since you're not cohabiting with anyone. When you decide to form a meaningful relationship with a significant other, you and your partner will be assigned a double unit at that time."
"This sure beats the hell out of apartment hunting," Ricky laughed, but the woman kept a straight, emotionless face.
"That leads us to companionship. What is your preference?"
"I don't follow you."
"Your preference? Do you prefer men or women or do you like both?"
Ricky, still only a seventeen-year-old boy emotionally, blushed with embarrassment.
"I like girls," he declared defensively. "Only girls."
"Here is the address of a social club in your area where you will find an assortment of young, unattached women."
"You're telling me where I should go to meet girls? Isn't that like shooting fish in a barrel?"
The young woman shook her head and returned to her duties, not bothering to try to understand his archaic expressions.
* * *
Ricky was not surprised to find that the front door to his living accommodations was unlocked, that in fact there were no more locks anywhere in the world, not since the Great Awakening. What would be their purpose, since there was no more crime?
"Nothing here to steal anyway," Ricky said with disappointment as he looked around the three small, unadorned, sparsely furnished rooms. "This place has all the warmth and charm of a gas station restroom."
He fondly remembered his parents' home, one filled with comfortable, if mismatched, furniture, family portraits, knickknacks, potted plants and his mother's homemade arts and crafts. His bedroom had been cluttered with posters, schoolbooks, video games, music CDs and diverse treasures from his childhood. On the other hand, the bedroom he was now expected to sleep in was empty except for a single bed and an overhead light. He walked over to the closet and peeked inside. There were three pairs of pants and three shirts, carbon copies of the ones he and everyone else were wearing.
"What I wouldn't give for my old jeans, a Red Sox sweatshirt and a pair of well-worn Reeboks," he sighed.
Ricky walked into the small efficiency kitchen and looked through the cabinet and refrigerator. Fresh fruit and vegetables, milk, bottled water and whole grain cereal seemed to be the only fare.
"Great! No meat. Has the entire world turned vegetarian?"
After eating a pint-sized bowl of granola followed by a dish of unsweetened strawberries, he searched the apartment for something to do to pass the time. There was no television or radio, no books, magazines or newspapers. Then he remembered the address of the social club where he could meet unattached women. He decided to pay it a visit and try to make some friends. After all, this was his world now. He had to adjust to it, and the sooner he did so the better.
When Ricky walked into the social club, he was reminded of the times he went grocery shopping with his mother. She always examined each vegetable and piece of fruit carefully before putting it into her cart. He could never understand why she had to look at a dozen or so cantaloupes or heads of lettuce before selecting one; they were all the same to him.
So it was with the unattached women he saw in the social club. They all looked, dressed and acted the same. There was no variation in hairstyle, clothing or shoes. One girl was pretty much the same as another.
How is anyone supposed to fall in love in this world? he wondered.
Love, to him, meant deeply caring for someone because she was special. He remembered the first girl he ever kissed, the first one he had a crush on in seventh grade. Her name was Mary Ellen O'Hara, and she had had a face full of freckles and a mop of unruly red hair that never looked brushed, but young Ricky thought the moon shone and the sun rose and set in her green eyes. She had been special, the only girl he had ever met who could play the drums, dive off the high board at the community swimming pool, pitch against the boys' All-Star Little League team and get straight A's in math.
Ricky tried talking to a few of the girls at the social club, but he soon grew bored of their pointless chatter and walked back to his apartment. None of them could hold a candle to Mary Ellen O'Hara. It saddened him to think that, if she was still alive, she was most likely a modern zombie living in a double unit with a monotonous significant other.
* * *
After six weeks of living and working in a futuristic nightmare, Ricky felt he was about to lose his mind. Not only did his beloved Boston Red Sox no longer exist, but baseball itself, as well as all other forms of competitive sports, was a thing of the past. It was believed that the idea of playing to win was in direct opposition to the grand concept of people selflessly working for the good of all.
"Hey, look at the bright side," he told himself with a humorless laugh. "At least the New York Yankees are history."
Along with the Red Sox, so many other things Ricky had loved in his youth perished with the Great Awakening. Movies, art, music, poetry—in short, every form of self-expression—fell by the wayside when man stopped hating and killing and began an era of world peace and international brotherhood.
"Who would have thought utopia would be so boring!" he exclaimed in exasperation.
It was while he was sitting in his living room one night, staring at the unadorned white walls, that he got the idea to write a novel. He did not have any experience writing, except for the occasional book report or term paper in high school, and he had, at best, only an average command of spelling, grammar and punctuation. His lack of skill did not deter him, however. He had no ambitions of being a serious author; he wanted only to amuse himself, occupy his time and keep from going mad.
The following day after work, he went to a general supply center—similar to an old-fashioned department store minus the check-out lines and prices on items. He picked up a mechanical pencil, a supply of leads and erasers and half a dozen pads of lined paper.
Once he had his supplies, he had to decide what kind of book he wanted to write. Science fiction was ruled out since nothing he could create would rival the bizarre world he was forced to inhabit since his own personal awakening. Horror? He used to love to read tales by Edgar Allan Poe, Dean Koontz, Anne Rice and Stephen King, but he did not want to write about ghosts, crazed killers or vampires He wanted to create something more cheerful, more fanciful, something with mythical creatures, epic battles, larger-than-life heroes, beautiful women in life-threatening circumstances and evil villains with magical powers: in other words, a fantasy.
Writing proved difficult at first. Ricky's initial attempts wound up as balls of crumpled paper in his trash receptacle, but eventually, he let his imagination run rampant and hoped his pencil could keep pace. He would come home from a boring day of splicing electric wires, eat a healthy but unappetizing meal and then lose himself in a world of rival kingdoms, ambitious queens, valiant knights, beautiful wenches and cunning wizards.
Soon his blossoming creativity splintered off into other areas. He extracted the juice from several different fruits and made a dye for his shirts. He also took some cotton balls and blotted the juice on the white walls of his apartment, creating his own abstract paintings. While Ricky had never considered himself the "artsy" type in the good old days, these were different times.
* * *
People began to take notice of Ricky. It was hard not to; his brightly colored clothes and his long hair and beard set him apart from all the others. People who passed him on the street often stopped and stared. Those who lived near him or worked with him began to shun him since they were suspicious of a man who would not conform. The reactions of those around him did not bother Ricky in the least. He had yet to meet a person in this new world that interested him. He would instead live his life as he chose. He would let his newly discovered muse guide him and not follow the pattern of mediocrity set in stone at the time of the Great Awakening.
Notwithstanding his avant-garde leanings, Ricky continued to go to work every day. It was necessary, he felt. He received free lodging, food, clothing and medical care. The least he could do was perform his assigned duties for the good of the group, but he did not really consider himself a part of it.
Nearly eight months after starting his book, the man from the past began writing the thirty-second chapter. He could have ended the story two chapters earlier but decided to add another adventure to his tale.
"Perhaps I'll write a saga as long as Tolkien's," he said with a satisfied smile.
He was busy writing one night when he heard a knock on the door. It was the first time he had ever had a visitor.
"Yes, I'm coming," he called.
"Hello, Mr. Gillespie."
Ricky recognized one of the doctors from the hospital. With him were two of the millennial Rip Van Winkle's fellow employees from the electric company.
"And what can I do for you gentlemen?" he asked politely.
The doctor looked at Ricky's hair, his beard and his clothes and then past him to the brightly painted living room walls.
"May we come inside?" asked the doctor, who seemed to be the unofficial spokesman of the group.
"Sure. If I knew you were coming, I'd have baked a cake," Ricky laughed.
But humor, like nearly everything else of value, was a thing of the past.
"There seems to be a problem here," the doctor announced.
"I thought I was as healthy as an ox."
"The problem is not with your health. It's a question of what I believe you would call 'breaking the law.'"
"Me?" Ricky asked with disbelief. "Break the law? I haven't done anything wrong. I haven't stolen anything. I didn't hurt anyone. I go to work every day and do my job."
Then Ricky laughed.
"Hey, wait a minute! Is this some kind of a joke? There are no laws anymore."
"There is one," the doctor confided. "It's really more of an unwritten law than an official one."
"Oh? What have I done that's so bad?"
"Just look at yourself. Look at this place. Why haven't you settled down with a nice girl and ...?"
"And what?" Ricky cried angrily. "Moved into a double unit, which is probably nothing more than a slightly larger version of the sterile, white-washed boxes assigned to unattached people? Then what am I supposed to do? Mate with one of those brainless women and reproduce a family of worker bees, mindless drones with no other ambition than to dedicate their lives to the good of the group?"
The three men exchanged meaningful glances. The doctor nodded, and the two others followed suit, seeming to have reached some sort of unspoken agreement.
Suddenly, Ricky's coworkers grabbed him by the arms. He tried to resist, but the two men easily wrestled him to the ground. The doctor took a small vial of amber-colored liquid from out of his pants pocket. Ricky clamped his jaws shut, but when the doctor pinched his nostrils tightly closed, he had to open his mouth to breathe. When he did, the doctor poured the liquid down his throat.
"We're sorry, Mr. Gillespie," the physician said, putting the empty vial back into his pocket. "The peace of our society must be maintained. For the good of all, we must abide by the unwritten law."
Darkness descended on the new world, and Ricky felt his consciousness slip away. Funny, he did not really mind dying; he had never cared much for the world that was born with the Great Awakening.
* * *
Ricky Gillespie opened his eyes and stared at the sterile white walls of the hospital room. A doctor stood at his bedside, checking his progress on the electronic medical chart.
"You'll be going home today," the physician announced.
A young woman, one of the nurses who had taken care of Ricky after his operation, corrected the doctor.
"Not his home," she said. "We're moving into one of the double units."
"Congratulations," the doctor said. "And I assume he'll be returning to the electric company soon."
"Oh, yes," she replied with a smile. "They've kept a position open for him."
Ricky did not take part in the conversation. If anyone asked him a direct question, he would respond, but he no longer willingly voiced any opinions or expressed any personal thoughts.
As the doctor turned to leave, the nurse stopped him.
"The scar," she asked in a low voice, "will it go away?"
"Don't worry," the doctor assured her. "Once his hair grows back, you won't notice it. He'll look just like everyone else. I promise."
"And there won't be any reoccurrence of his—behavior?"
"No. None at all. He's completely cured. There'll be no more beards, colored shirts, painted walls, or foolish writings. Your Mr. Gillespie will be an asset to society."
The nurse was relieved. At first, she had misgivings about becoming involved with someone who had exhibited criminal tendencies. The young woman had no grounds for fear, however. The selfless society of the future had learned to protect itself well. With war and crime abolished, the only remaining danger was in those rare individuals who broke the unwritten law. These men and women needed to be rehabilitated—surgically—and put on a proper course of action. Such had been the case with Ricky Gillespie, a man from the past who had broken the only law in force since the time of the Great Awakening, the only remaining threat to their peaceful, utopian society: that of being different.
Lucky for Salem there's no law in our time against being different!
