Conscientious Objector

I had been a conscientious objector during World War II, choosing instead to fight wildfires in my home state of Oregon. In addition to firefighting, we were required to report once a month to a CDC field office. The scientists there would draw blood, sometimes give us experimental medicines in one form or another, and then ask us a long series of questions, after which we were provided a hot meal and sent on our way.

That’s where I met Dr. Quellenbaum. We made fast friends after we caught each other spitting out a foul mouthful of the CDC’s rendition of meatloaf. He joined me at my table and we got to talking. His team was testing measured dosages of the newly mass produced penicillin, among other things. He told me that if he hadn’t been doing such important scientific research he would likely have been drafted as well, and that he would have preferred fighting fires over shooting people in the face also. That meant a lot to me at a time when I was seen by many as one step below a traitor.

That war ended in 1945 and so did my service with the Oregon firefighters, but I stayed on as a guinea pig for the CDC because it was a quick buck and it kept me in touch with Dr. Quellenbaum, or Tom as I came to know him. We would get together now and again, drink some wine, and commiserate about the sorry state of the world.

Americans were supposedly such a civilized people but we were no better than the beasts in the forest when it came to disputes over resources, policies, or ideas. The so-called ‘commies’ would send aid to some small country and suddenly Americans’ hackles would rise up and their blood would boil primal, patriotic, red, white, and blue. The howling of the dogs of war was sometimes muffled but never silenced.

I sometimes half- jokingly asked Tom if they had yet invented any experimental drugs for depression.

“Not unless you’re interested in shock therapy,” he chuckled, “but if I’m being honest, the evidence for its usefulness is less than convincing.” I took his word for it.

“No morphine trials in the future then?”

Tom grimaced a bit at that. “Well, there’s already a wealth of research on morphine and its benefits and downfalls. There’s talk of a new synthetic opioid they’re calling Methadone, but I hesitate to recommend you for that study. Opioids are for pain management of the body, not for the soul.”

I gave him my best attempt at a smile and I didn’t pursue it any further, though I wanted to tell my friend about the physical pain that seemed to spread outward from an aching hole in my heart.

On my thirty-fifth birthday, January 31st, 1952, I reluctantly agreed to meet him at the Liberty Theater in Astoria to see the Cecil B. de Mille picture, ‘The Greatest Show on Earth’. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go but I tend to get very gloomy around my birthday, partly because it also marks the anniversary of my mother’s death. I generally prefer to be alone so as not to infect anyone else with my bad mood, but Tom was persistent.

Though technicolor film would likely fascinate me for the rest of my life, the movie was dull and by the last half hour I was nodding off. Afterwards, Tom suggested we grab a bite to eat but I lied and told him I thought I was coming down with a cold and should go home to sleep.

In reality, I was going to go home and get black out drunk and take a healthy dose of Veronal, an over the counter barbituate. I might sleep for ten days, with any luck, I might not wake up at all. Maybe it was something in my eyes or my voice, but Tom seemed to read my mind.

“C’mon, let’s go for one drink,” he insisted. “I have something serious I need to discuss with you.”

We crossed the street and sat ourselves at the bar of the Hotel Elliot. I ordered three fingers of bourbon and lit a cigarette.

“You really ought to quit those,” Tom felt obliged to impart.

I smirked and sipped my drink. “Just give me one good reason my friend.”

“Well, that’s actually what I wanted to talk with you about Mike. Look, it’s no secret that you’re miserable. You’re an empath. You see all that’s wrong in this world, all the undermining and subjugation, and you take it upon yourself. Now as far as I know, they don’t make a medicine for that.”

I snorted a little laugh. “Anti-elephant juice,” I said, holding up my amber glass of whiskey. “It’s temporary, but effective.”

“I’ve a proposal for you, if you’ll hear me out.”

“You’ve got my attention buddy, considering I was going to go home and try to kill myself, but I think you’d already guess something like that.” He frowned a little but didn’t deny it.

“Maybe the problem is that you were born too early Mike, a man from the wrong time…”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait.” I slammed my drink and ordered another. “Did y’all build a time machine?”

“No, not quite. It’s a newer technology called Cryonics. The idea is that the heart would be slowed to a point near death, at which time the body would quickly be frozen to an extremely low temperature which would, in theory, suspend it in a state of preservation until a later date. The proposal states that, in 2022, you would be revived. Seventy years from now.”

“From now?” I exclaimed. “How soon is this scheduled to happen?”

“Next week,” Tom said.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Now, hold on. You’re really going to think I’m pulling your leg but the person originally selected to undergo this procedure died suddenly two days ago, and the crazy part is that you and him share the same name. I mean if that’s not fate, I don’t know what is. So I’m asking, do you want to be the first man to travel time?”

I slammed my drink again and signaled the bartender.

“Yup,” I said. “I sure do.”

If Tom had told he wanted to test the fatality range of LSD I would have been onboard. If he had said that they needed somebody to measure the amount of resistance between a human body and an oncoming train I might have agreed, for science.

The next week was a bit of a blur. I stayed in the laboratory. I refrained from booze and pills and cigarettes. I ate three square meals a day and slept very little. My mind raced around a track of implications.

There were three other test subjects but I felt like a lone explorer on a distant shore. What strange coconuts I might find.

Maybe regular citizens like me will be able to travel into outer space in seventy years. Maybe aliens will have visited us. Maybe humankind will have given up differentiating themselves by class and color. Perhaps there will be a machine to record our dreams. I might wake up in a world where Christine Jorgensen wouldn’t be a spectacle, but would be allowed to live a quiet life of relative comfort, a world where war might just be a cautionary tale we tell to children who misbehave.

What would food be like? More decadent, or would everyone just get a nugget of vitamins and proteins. The questions never ceased and sleep never came but I didn’t mind. I was about to sleep for several decades so I could catch up then.

How quickly the day came. Ironically, a very specific dosage of Barbitol, the same drug I planned to use to kill myself, was now used to slow my heart. I regulated my breathing and let the drugs take any worries far away. Tom sat with me and talked with me, carefully monitoring my vital functions up until the point that the chamber was sealed. The liquid gas was quickly introduced and I was gone.

If leaving this world was one of the more peaceful sensations I had experienced, the opposite could be said of being brought back to life.

Flashing lights, sirens, steam, and smoke choked the air. I struggled to breath, coughing violently. Several people in lab coats rushed around the room. Someone covered my nose and mouth with an oxygen mask and suddenly I could breathe. I felt a sharp pain in my arm where an I.V. drip was inserted and instinctively tried to squirm away, but I was strapped down.

One of the technicians stood in the middle of the room with a clipboard. “Patient one!” he yelled.

“Patient one has expired!” answered another technician.

He marked an X on his clipboard. “Patient two?”

“Expired, sir!”

“Patient three.”

“Heart signal is weak! Beginning CPR and defibrillation now.”

“Patient four?”

“Stable, sir.”

“Good. Get that vent on and somebody turn off those fucking alarms.” The lead technician immediately began assisting with the emergency care of patient three, but after a few minutes he scribbled another X on his clipboard.

The air had cleared and the mask was removed from my face. The lead tech stood over my pod. “Patient four, Mr Michael Brown. I am Dr. Eisley. Congratulations on surviving the Cryo Future project. Regrettably, the other test subjects had complications that were beyond our control. Now, take all the time you need but I must ask, how are you feeling?”

“Apprehensive,” I blurted out. My heart was racing and I knew I was hyperventilating.

“That’s to be expected. Anything out of the ordinary? Anything aside from the obvious.”

I focused on slowing my breath. “Very thirsty.”

“I’ll bet.” He went to a refrigerator and brought back a small orange box with the word ‘Gatorade’ on it. He undid the straps on my arm and punched a small straw into the box. “Small sips,” he cautioned. It was vaguely reminiscent of orange, not the fruit, but the color. It tasted like what orange might taste like.

“So, this is what you drink in the year 2022?”

He gave a reluctant cluck. “No. Unfortunately there was a malfunction with the pods and we had to cut the experiment short. We are in the year 2019. Now, I am sure you have a million questions but let’s go slow. We have a couple of weeks of rehabilitation ahead of us just to get you walking again and making sure all your systems are adjusting properly. After that we’ll get you set up with all your legal documentation. There is a small home that has been purchased in your name and you have a bank account that has matured considerably. If you can stand to live modestly, it should support you for the remainder of your life. This is Terrance. He is an aid assigned to you who will stay with you as long as you require to answer any questions and help you adapt to life in this strange new world.”

A wave of terror poured over me for a moment and I no longer saw myself as some brave pioneer. I felt more like a cross between a lab rat and a mental patient. What had I really agreed to?

“When the I.V. has run its course, we will assist you to a proper hospital bed. If you need anything or have any strange sensations, don’t hesitate to let us know. Okay?” I meant to nod but my brain stalled. Dr. Eisley took my silence as agreement and quickly took his leave.

The next few weeks seemed to go on interminably, night bleeding into day. I had trouble sleeping and when I slept I had trouble waking back up. Due to the cryonics, my muscles had not atrophied but actually learning to walk again was still very frustrating. Initially, my diet consisted of fruit and vegetable mush, then progressed to leafy greens and bananas, and finally solid root vegetables with small bits of proteins.

“Are you worried about tomorrow?” Terrance asked.

“Yes,” I admitted. Tomorrow I would wake up, if I slept, and be greeted by a mass of media who had dubbed me ‘The Time Traveler’. After the press conference I would get to go out in the world and get a firsthand look at the 21st century.

“What do you think you want to do first?”

I thought about it for a moment as I absently gnawed on a carrot. “Well, I am interested in tasting some of the culinary delights of this modern age. What was the one you mentioned?”

Terrance laughed. “Taco Bell? That might be a little too adventurous for a starter course.”

“I’ll wear a diaper,” I said.

That made him laugh even harder.

Something had occurred to me. The thought had tumbled over and over through my mind since I had woken up and I couldn’t help but feel that the answer would give me some insight into how, or if, the world had changed since I went into cryosleep. “Terrance, I’ve got a question. My friend, Dr. Quellenbaumm, the one who got me into this study. He had been working with the CDC on a vaccine for polio in the early 50’s and I’m wondering if it panned out. Is polio something long gone from our world?”

“Well, let’s see.” He pulled a slim device from his breast pocket that he referred to as his ‘phone’, though it bore no resemblance to the bulky rotary telephones of my day and yet somehow contained massive amounts of knowledge and communication technology. “Umm, unfortunately no. While it is much less rampant, it seems that there have been hundreds of cases this year alone, and most of those were caused by an oral version of the vaccine in countries with lower sanitation standards.” His mouth did a little frown. “Hm. You learn something new everyday.” And that was it. I let it sink in.

I didn’t sleep that night. I wanted to be numb for the press conference. I wanted to appear so unengaged and boring that no television or newspaper in their right mind would ask to interview me again.

After what seemed like hours of interrogation, Terrance stepped in. “Alright folks, just one more question. You, go ahead.”

“What are you going to do first?”

I looked to Terrance and smiled. “I’m going to Taco Bell.”

The reporters did what they do, continuing to ask questions as Terrance whisked me away down a secret corridor to an elevator. On the roof of the building, a helicopter stood by. It was the only conceivable way to outrun the press. “First time in a helicopter. Are you excited?” he yelled.

“I was a wildland firefighter. They used to drop us out of choppers past the boundary so we could try and get ahead of the flames.” He nodded and smiled but I wasn’t convinced he’d heard me over the noise of the rotor.

We flew two cities away where we were cleared to land on a hospital rooftop. Coming down to the lobby, we passed through the E.R. waiting room and I saw immediately that medicine and science had not evolved into a cohesive structure where people were quickly and easily treated for any various degree of ailments. It was a morbid atmosphere. One man had a t-shirt wrapped about his head, soaked with blood.

I stopped abruptly. “Sir, can I ask how long you’ve been waiting here.”

He glanced at the clock on the wall. “About four hours,” he replied. I was shocked.

“I’m so sorry,” I said earnestly.

He looked confused as Terrance pulled me away. I was sickened.

“You a doctor?” the man asked. “You gonna get somebody to look at me?” he yelled, but we were already out the door.

“I’m sorry Mike, but we can’t stay too long in the emergency room. Your immune system is not prepared yet for the worst of the worst.”

Terrance took out his phone. “Siri, where is the nearest Taco Bell.” Admittedly, I was a little surprised he was humoring me.

The smells of the world were different. Some alluring, some atrocious, and something about the air itself was heavy. It was hard to take deep breaths and it made me cough. I realized that the air in the laboratory had been filtered and modified. The air out in the world was enough to make you sick.

There was constant noise. There were needy people on every other corner dressed in trash. Everyone looked suspicious or looked at us suspiciously. I desperately wanted to get off the street when suddenly my eye caught a large gathering up ahead in a park.

“Is that a parade?” I asked.

“More likely it’s a march, or a protest of some sort.”

“I want to see.”

Terrance let out a deep sigh. “Okay.”

When we got close I was horrified to notice some of the men adorned with swastikas, throwing nazi salutes.

“What the fuck is this?” I said outloud. I briefly had a twinge of regret that I had forgone active duty during World War II, as though me and my M1 could have somehow prevented this.

Terrance shook his head. “I don’t have a good answer for you Mike.”

I looked one of the men dead in the eye and spat on the ground, silently cursing him. “Let’s go.”

“You have arrived at your destination,” Siri informed us.

“This is it,” Terrance said with a heavy dose of skepticism. “You ready?”

“It smells like a bathroom,” I noted.

Terrance nodded. “You’re not wrong.”

We went in and stood in the queue. I read over the menu several times. There were no descriptions of ingredients so I based my choices solely on the name of the product.

“Hi, welcome to Taco Bell, can I take your order?”

“Yes ma’am. I’m going to have a cheesy gordita crunch, a fiesta potato burrito, and a mexican pizza.”

“You want to make any of that a combo?”

“Yes,” I agreed blindly.

“Do you want to get that combo blasted?”

I hesitated. “Now what does that mean because I’ve never been here before.”

“Basically we cover everything in nacho cheese and it comes with a Mountain Dew Baja Blast Margarita.”

“Okay, yes. Yes, I want that.” I could hear Terrance belly laughing behind me.

“Alright, your total is $15.83.”

Terrance showed me how to use my debit card. So far, this was the best part of my day.

“Hold onto your receipt and we’ll call your number.”

“Thank you...Janice,” I said, reading her nametag.

The service was exceptionally fast and we sat at a booth facing the television. The food did not disappoint. To my palate, this was easily the strangest, most exotic cuisine I had ever tasted.

We watched a daytime talk show until it was interrupted with an emergency bulletin.

“Protestors have once again taken to the streets in defiance of the curfew. When asked the reason, one spectator stated that they marched in response to the death of yet another unarmed black man at the hands of the police. Another, a self-claimed activist, said that they intend to continue to ignore the curfew as long as their cries of ‘no justice, no peace’ fall on deaf ears. We’ll bring you more up to date coverage as it comes in.”

I stopped eating.

“Terrance, where is the bathroom.”

“All the way back to the right.”

I half walked, half ran. The toilet was covered in piss but I didn’t have time to wipe it away, so I just sat in it. My guts were being wrenched by a sadistic machinist. Terrance had warned me, but it wasn’t just the food poisoning. I had a new illness. I had time sickness.

This wasn’t a brave new world. It just had a makeover. If you asked me now, how long it takes for an intelligent species to make noticeable advancements in evolution, my only answer would be, more than seventy years.

I no longer think I was born at the wrong time. I no longer think that it was fate that drew me into that cryogenic freeze. I believe the universe is an ever expanding ball of highly metered chaos, filled with itty-bitty molecules, whose natural inclination leans towards violence.

If hopes and wishes were loaves and fishes, but they aren’t. There is no utopia. It’s cheesy gordita crunches turned to aggressive diarrhea over a piss covered toilet while I profusely sweat Mountain Dew and tequila and some dance group incessantly proclaims that ‘the groove is in the heart’ over and over and over on the loudspeaker in the bathroom.

I may very well die here, but then again, I haven’t tried any of the new drugs that the 21st century has to offer.