Schrodinger’s Island
By Kyle Smitheram
Michael lay on the dingy sheets that covered his bed, and tried to button a new pair of uniform slacks. The slacks had come by courier the night before, and were a size too small. The government issued pants he received often were.
He exhaled deeply, and sucked in his sizable stomach. Grunting, and tugging on the waistband as hard as he could, he was finally able to secure the clasp.
He lied there, breathing heavy for a moment while he stared at the water stained ceiling. I need to get back in shape, he thought.
The only shape he’d ever been was round.
Michael had always been pudgy, if not outright fat. In practicing school he did not show any acclimation for sport, physical fitness or any other extracurricular activity. He wasn’t a dim bulb in the looks or brains department, but wasn’t a bright one either. He had accepted that he would never be a Colonial Scholar, a star sportsman, or Pillar Citizen, but he liked to dream.
Happy with the clasp on the uniform slacks he stood, and began to collect the items he had been directed to bring with him.
Sitting on top of a stack of old newspapers, magazines, and credit stubs on his nightstand was a stack of papers marked TOP SECRET, and a ferry pass which had his official photo. He took the papers and pass, and walked out of his room.
“Alright buddy, it’s time to do this,” he said to himself as he grabbed a light black jacket from the arm of a recliner in the living area. It was a little pep talk to calm his nerves.
He was not calm. Change scared him. Always had. He breathed in deeply, and instead of refreshing air to help clear his mind he was assaulted by a terrible smell.
Looking around he realized that he needed to clean. The sink was full of plates with food still on them, and glasses coated in the residue of milk, or the thick beer he sometimes drank.
The trashcan was over flowing. Around the bottom of the receptacle were numerous wadded up papers, and a plastic container. He knew the plastic container on the floor had noodles in it still. He also knew he hadn’t mopped or swept in months.
Get back in shape, and clean up, he thought. Lady would love a fat lazy slob like you?
Michael felt that he was a realist. He knew he was lazy, he knew he was fat, and he knew that he could never get a girl like Azele Stanley, the propaganda model. That didn’t stop him from dreaming, or buying Azele’s Patriot Calendar every year.
In fact, most of Michael’s free time was dedicated to day dreaming about women he “knew” he couldn’t get. There were a few single, attractive women in his living block that had not yet applied for family housing or marriage through the Department of Families. It was rare that any of these women would look at him, let alone speak to him, but he often innocently fantasized about taking them out to the cinema, or to a fish dinner on the back of his scooter.
The knowledge that a night out would likely destroy the little savings he had in his freedom account didn’t bother him. He just wanted to feel a pretty girl’s arms wrapped tightly around him as they zipped toward the downtown marketplace or the bay regardless of the cost. Often, when those fantasies were over he would scold himself, not for being frivolous with the few extra credits he was allowed, but for getting his hopes up for dreaming something like that could actually happen.
He was thirty years old, and had never had a serious girlfriend, but he couldn’t stop the fantasies. Sometimes he believed he could woo someone like Azele Stanley, or a girl in the presidential family, or even just one of the pretty girls in his tract; but other times, he would see the picture of Azele in her famous red evening gown, or another fancy dress, and would know that he would turn thirty-two, and still be alone.
