The Uniform Variant
A psychologist discovers a way to save her country from a new viral strain.
Photo by Fusion Medical Animation on Unsplash
I
The streets were empty for a long time. People were with their families, spending time together they usually wouldn’t. It was wonderful. I found out things about my own mother I never knew. She had owned and managed a dairy for four years after finishing university. Didn’t go to England. Didn’t go to Scotland. Went down the road and with her savings and purchased a nice little corner spot. I never knew that. She told me how they did the stock take, what the customers were like, and a plethora of beautiful, humane anecdotes.
Since everybody was inside, people were safer. For one, they didn’t have to drive. Cars are a combination of steel, rubber and axles that fly at high speed down narrow corridors. Human bodies, on the other hand, are fragile organic machines that can be crushed with ease. It shocks me as to the stupidity of our peoples to allow our fellow citizens to hop in these vehicles of death. But for two years, they acted not as vehicles of death, but unattractive sculptures parked in our driveways. Harm on your eyes yes, but not ultimate harm.
There was no public drinking either. There was no name-calling, no fighting. Young men didn’t allow superficial differences to coalesce into rabid violence because they weren’t outside, intoxicated, playing buffoon. I only realised after months of being inside, but the lockdowns civilised people, just like jails civilise criminals. As much as you want people to achieve salvation through discovery of inner sophistication - the psychologist’s mantra - one must accept that the modern mind cannot do this alone. It needs to be taught, trained, and repeatedly told.
Today is the last day we are allowed to stay at home. The university, against widespread protest from within both student and staff bodies, has decided to return to in-person lectures. Rumours of such a decision floated around the psychology department (or should I say, digital psychology department) yet no one really believed they would actually take the risk! The dangers are immense. Increased spread of the virus. More virus deaths. Individuals with serious conditions unable to receive aid because ICU beds are overflowing with new cases. As a result, the last two weeks have been difficult for me. I was shocked when I heard of the university’s decision, and sank, like an anchor dropped into a murky sea, into acute depression.
Nearly every night, Clara, my bestie from within the department, and Thommy, a highly respected immunologist would all share a virtual room on zoom. We would tell each other what we did that day, the little things. What projects we had going on. For instance, I had started practising origami, and was skilful enough to build complex dodecahedrons; Clara had perfected her self-hair-dying technique (she had gone from pale-green, to violet and blue, and now sheet black); and Thommy had returned to drawing, his love as a young child. But tonight, all our faces on the screen are like those of gargoyles - ghoulish, pale, distraught.
“I cannot believe it,” Clara says with her little voice.
Thommy nods, his expression grave with scientific realisation. “This could cause a lot of harm. To me the scariest thing is the unknown. It’s impossible to quantify the amount of harm, the number of potential deaths. Even on our most conservative estimates, we will have 100s of deaths. And that’s just from the virus. Add on a sharp rise in deaths from other life-threatening conditions, and we could be out of control. Personally, I am very worried. The way I see it, the government is killing people with their decision.”
Clara moans, “it’s terrible, just terrible. Think of the impact it will have on the public health system. Increases in pathology cause increases in psychopathology which cause increases in pathology which then cause increases in psychopathology. Dare I say it, suicides will skyrocket.”
I shake my head, “we haven’t even talked about the road deaths.”
II
I sit, with much effort, on the couch facing the window in the lunchroom, a coffee in hand. My knees are shot. They have been since puberty. I have a rare form of arthritis which restricts all my movements. Some days I am in such severe pain it hurts to even scroll my phone.
The oppressive greyness outside reflects the behaviour of our now ‘free’ citizens. Cars push past one another aggressively, their toots punching outward. A man pokes his head out the driver’s window and waves his arm angrily. Bodies swim along the street, heads either held up, or facing down at their phones, oblivious to each other's proximity. A group of older citizens are sitting on a bench, crutches and wheelchairs laid aside, talking. None of them are wearing masks. I shake my head. Do they not know the risks they are taking?
It’s been three months since the country opened up again. The ministry of health has reported 157 virus deaths. Deaths from other life-threatening conditions are up. Alcohol-related injury and crime has increased, and more people are dying on our roads. The suffering - all of it - was predictable. And preventable. We needed to eliminate the virus completely before we opened up.
A group of immunologists, virologists, and epidemiologists, from various universities throughout the country, of which Thommy was part, banded together to persuade the government to return to lockdown. They refused, citing economic reasons. Safety protests were organised. Obviously, people standing in the street in close proximity waving banners and signs would be hypocritical, given their stance. So, they decided to enact a nationwide ‘stay at home’ protest; where people were able to not put themselves at risk. I did my bit - last week I taught no lectures and stayed at home. I regret having to make Dr Twizel teach my lectures, but it was necessary. Next week we have another one planned - I relish the opportunity to continue my folding.
Earlier today, Thommy emailed both Clara and me with an urgent request. Even though all three of us adhere resolutely to social-distancing rules, he said we needed to meet in-person: discussion of this digitally was out of the question. My anxiety, already heightened by risking my life every day, vibrated out of my body as if my fear shook the molecules of objective reality. My first thought was that he had attained some inside knowledge of institutional corruption, given the beliefs and characters of the government in current control. More and more stories, day after day, splash onto my newsfeed: large corporate interests are being satisfied … members of parliament have stakes in the tourism industry … bribery of the foreign minister's personal secretary. ...
Someone whispers behind me. I jitter in fright.
“Sorry Yolanda,” Thommy says, eyeing the lunchroom. “Clara cannot come, but we spoke earlier.” He sits down, his face serious. “Turn off your phone and put it in one of the kitchen drawers.” He anticipates my reaction, “trust me just do it. We cannot take any risks.” For speed’s sake, he does it for me.
I ask what is happening once he returns.
For a few moments he doesn’t speak and studies my face. “Have you heard of the Uniform Variant?” he finally says.
I shake my head.
“Nobody has. Last week I got an email from Dr Fredrick Khalisi, head of the International Board of Immunologists. One month ago, in Thailand, virus deaths sharply increased. Initially, people blamed the chaotic public health system and government corruption. Yet after analysis of infection rates, a small group of investigators concluded the discovery of a new strain. They named it: The Uniform Variant.”
I exclaim, my eyes widening.
“Yes, I know, shocking, but there’s more. The Uniform Variant is easily distinguished from Alpha for two reasons,” he blows out his mouth, readying himself, “first, it is less contagious than Alpha, and secondly, it has approximately 10 times the mortality rate.”
Thommy continues speaking but I cannot hear him. He holds my arm, “Yolanda, are you okay? Yolanda? I know it’s shocking, but you must listen: I attended a meeting last week with the Board. They believe, confidently I should add, this new strain is not going to escape the Asian continent. Its transmissibility is just too low, given the current border restrictions of countries in Europe, across the Atlantic, and where we are, in the Pacific.”
“How can they be so sure?”
“Well, they can’t, really. The variables are impossible to know with any smidgen of confidence. A couple of others and I argued the inherent danger of this new strain entering a small country like ours. Yolanda, the Uniform Variant has a mortality rate similar to that of the Bubonic Plague.”
I put my hand to my mouth, “But Thommy ... What’s going to happen?”
“Well top government officials already know. Within a couple of days, you’ll see the media jump all over this. Within a week the country will be scared out of its wits. As they should be. Even with this corrupt, money-hungry government, one case will send the country into lockdown.”
He stops speaking, allowing me to decipher his plan. His eyes lighten and a wry smile crosses his face when he intuits my discovery. He nods, “yes, Yolanda, yes. It will benefit the entire country. Think about it.”
He is going to fake a Uniform Case to send the country into lockdown. Genius!
“All we need now,” he says, “is a volunteer.”
“Thank you mother,” I say as she hands me my favourite: Earl Gray with milk and honey.
She smiles and sits opposite me. I glare at her. She understands and lifts herself back off the seat, leaving the sitting room. I partially open the curtain to my right, and peer out: only blackness and the whines of a cat. My eyes return to my computer screen, and I unmute zoom. Clara’s expression hasn’t changed.
“Clara,” I say, “it’s for the good of the country. You must see that.”
“Yes but…” she shakes her head, her small nose ribbing with wrinkles. “I just can’t allow myself to deceive people like this.”
Thommy had asked both Clara and me to volunteer to be Uniform 1. He admitted that whoever was chosen would be sworn to secrecy and a huge burden would be placed on their lives. We would also, however, be serving the country; and preserving, literally, the life of the public. By returning to lockdown, we should be able to not only eliminate Alpha but ensure Uniform never gained a foothold. When I asked why us, he replied that he trusted no one like he did Clara and me.
At first, I had been doubtful, yet Thommy lobbied me to delay my decision until he had shared the details of the ‘operation’ later in the week. I must admit, I didn’t like his use of the word ‘operation’. Clara, on the other hand, immediately refused - “without thought” Thommy said.
“Sometimes Clara,” I reply, my finger circling the ring of my mug, “one needs to commit a minor moral crime in order to protect the public good. These are the decisions people who lead this country must make. If you want a civilised society to live in - a kind society, you must make these individual sacrifices.”
“By lying to the entire nation? Being sworn to secrecy for your entire life?”
I sigh, studying Clara’s soft, concerned face. She didn’t have the stomach for it. “You’re being uncharitable, Clara. We won’t be lying to the nation; we will be lying for the nation. For its own benefit. We will be saving people’s lives; we will be saving people from themsel -”
“Lying is lying, Yolanda. I’m sorry, but I just cannot be a part of this. Whatever decision you choose, I will be there for you, because of what you mean to me. But,” she whimpers, her head dropping into her hand, “I just cannot be a part of this.”
I sigh again, scratching my head. I wonder if this reaction is because of her background. She was raised in a deeply religious Christian household. Her mother did not work, her father dominated. It was an oppressive place. She says she doesn't believe anymore but her behaviour occasionally suggests the opposite. I wouldn’t be surprised if, like a poor ground’s person failing to properly resow their soil, she had failed to eradicate her magical beliefs.
“Okay Clara,” I whisper, “I understand.” I reorient myself on the seat. “So, what else happened today, Clara? How did your lectures go?”
“I’m sorry Yolanda, I’m going to put Jeremy to sleep. He’s been a bit over excited recently.”
We say our goodbyes and I watch her sorrowful smile be replaced by the infinite black of the computer screen.
Later that night I am lying in bed. The pain from my knees is keeping me awake. No amount of medication will temper their sensory convulsions.
This momentous decision forced on me by both nature’s entropy, and Clara’s resistance, has made me consider my life in perspective. When I was young my mother described my personality as ‘investigative’: “you always were outside, digging up the soil, trying to find remains of ancient cultures.” I was addicted to crime dramas; my first career choice was being a detective. And perhaps I would’ve been, if my knees hadn’t buckled, if my body hadn’t given in, once I became a teenager. Unable to flourish outside and be mobile, my investigative qualities were instead focussed upon the obvious scientific alternate: lab-work. From when I was around 16, I had wanted to be a researcher; I wanted to find out what was happening in the human mind.
Being a psychologist, one is aware of what is lacking, or what is in excess, in one’s own life, and how this influences contentment and well-being. For some time, although I refused to confront it, I viewed my well-being as a pie-chart. With friends, family, a career - Maslow’s hierarchy of needs - the pie was relatively full. But a decent slither was missing. I had always intuited what this missing slice was, however, now its articulation is dancing in the forefront of mind, overpowering the pain in my knees.
My life has always lacked a higher meaning. I gave myself bounds preventing me from applying my being into something more fundamental. Something collective. I continuously told myself ‘No, don’t go out and march, that’s silly. Keep your head down, what would your father think?’ Perhaps it was associated with my distrust of religion; how it can incite hatred from the fervour of group connectedness. Perhaps I didn’t want to be swept up, fearing my values lost. Yet, as with many fears, if they are permitted to propagate, they cause vicious gouges in the psyches of their host. Lying here, finally revealed to me, is their deep crevices; and combined they fill the missing slice.
Becoming Uniform 1 will replace that missing slice. I can become a part of something higher; completing a duty for the literal health of my country; even if they don’t know it, and perhaps will never know it. It is what my father always used to say: ‘good deeds are for what others see; great deeds are for what others don’t’.
Ignoring the pain in my knees, I reach for my phone beside my bed. I send Thommy a message:
I am willing to do anything you ask.
Within seconds he replies with a love heart. I smile: I am realised.
III
Two mornings later, I am standing on the corner of a relatively quiet back street in the city, mask over my face. On the other side of the crossing a woman in tights jogs on the spot waiting for the lights, her head moving side to side, earphones dangling down to the phone in her hand. I hear some people talking behind me. A cafe door closes. Two men step out in suits, coffees in hand, masks on their chins. They laugh at some presumably obnoxious joke. Above me seagulls arc across the hazy blue sky, their crying almost as irritating as the cars bleeping by. I have been here for more than ten minutes, anxiously checking my phone. Earlier, Thommy sent me an encrypted message asking to meet at this address. However, my phone has been overwhelmed by a different kind of notification.
On cue, an emergency report appeared yesterday in the Journal of Virology, detailing the Uniform Variant. Quickly, it was picked by major news organisations across the world, including our country. Here, whether their bias be pro or anti the current government, news sites and commentators agreed on the horrific reality of the variant; how an uncountable number will die if Uniform is allowed to infect the populace. The prime minister issued an emergency press release last night, but disappointingly - I guess predictably - he said nothing of note, meaning he failed to suggest any semblance of a new lockdown plan. I was on zoom with both Clara and Thommy at the time; Thommy told us not to worry: the prime minister’s failure to toe the anti-lockdown line so typical of his recent tenure, is sign enough their thinking has been shocked. Electrodes, of the most powerful kind, have been placed over the collective administrative mind: They now deeply doubt their obnoxious ‘free-citizen, free mind’ slogan. Lockdowns are being organised, waiting, ready to be enacted to protect the country. I cannot stop thinking about my new role in all this.
A white hybrid Prius pulls up at the crossing. The front window is dimmed but a person is sitting in the passenger’s seat. I can see they are smiling at me. My eyes narrow. The light turns green, and the car turns left, parking in the foremost space. The passenger window lowers and Thommy’s white teeth fills the opening. “Come on Yolanda,” he chuckles, looking left and right, “over here!”
As I hop in Thommy begins to introduce me to the man in the driver’s seat. “Turn off your phone,” the man suddenly commands. I look at Thommy, wondering if he meant me. The man turns around, his sharp jaw seeming to slice the air. He stares at me. Even through his sunglasses, I can see the intensity in his eyes. “Turn off your phone, please,” he says, this time quieter. He tilts his head toward Thommy, “Has he instructed you how to do this properly?” My failure to reply provokes him to glare at Thommy.
“Sorry, dammit. I forgot.”
The man shakes his head. “Give me your phone, Miss. Now.”
We didn’t speak for the rest of the car ride. I kept wondering who this man was, where he came from. The secret intelligence service? Some private organisation? Despite my curiosity, it was immediately obvious given Thommy’s and his behaviour, that these were not appropriate questions to ask. Additionally, the resulting tension prevented any attempts at light conversation. I remember thinking how long it was since I conversed with non-academics; individuals not used to creating safe and kind social spaces. Luckily the drive was only ten minutes.
We are now standing in a wide empty room on the second story of an incredibly ordinary concrete building. The windows are masked with thick brown paper, dust has settled on the floor, and a single long table with computers and other strange technological equipment sits in the centre.
The man quickly scouts the room, before turning to me. He takes off his glasses and when he smiles, his prickly, weathered face warms into a protective masculinity so reminiscent of my father. If I hadn’t completed clinical training, I might’ve been disarmed. “I’m Terrance,” he says.
I repeat his name, expecting him to produce a second.
“Just Terrance, for now. I’m sorry, safety is paramount. You saw my reaction with the phones. Your name?”
“Dr Yolanda Hastings.”
He nods, “take a seat.” I realise he must’ve already known my name.
Thommy pulls out a chair for me, and sits down beside me, opposite Terrance, who turns on a laptop and pushes across a document for me to sign. “Okay,” he says, “we’re ready.”
I look at Thommy. He smiles and raises his eyebrows.
“Operation Uniform 1,” Terrance begins, “codenamed: Plug.”
“Sorry,” I interject, “Plug? Why Plug if you don’t mind?”
Thommy answers for him, “well normally plugs keep things in, right? Like water in a sink. But sometimes they keep things out; like plugging a hole in a tent to prevent rain from entering.” The tent reference is not surprising, given Thommy’s obsession with camping. “We thought it made sense. Uniform 1 is the Plug; you are preventing the virus from entering and disseminating among our land and peoples. It was my idea.”
I nod. So, I’m The Plug. Charming.
Terrance continues, “Dr Yolanda Hastings has agreed to absolute confidentiality. If she breaks the terms of this secrecy agreement - with anyone ever - until the time comes when discussion of this operation is authorised, then punishment will incur as mentioned in the document.”
Punishment incurred? Terrance notices my expression. “Do you want to read the small print again?”
I look at Thommy, he shrugs.
“Never mind,” I say. Terrance looks back at the screen. Was that relief on his face? Before I can interject, he continues with more preliminary statements. Finally, he pushes the laptop away and addresses Thommy, “Dr Hazlewood, do you want to inform Dr Hastings on the details of Operation Plug?” The formality is killing me. With my eyes I signal to Thommy my desire for him to speak.
“I’d be delighted too,” he says.
Thommy turns to me, and over the next twenty minutes, in a slow measured tone, without his usual high-tempered cadence, he describes to me what is to be done. My future reality has finally become explicit.
IV
I am sitting in a taxi. Because my knees prevent me from being able to drive - it is too dangerous both for myself and others - it is necessary for someone to drive me. I used to take the bus when I was younger and a little more mobile, but now the large step required to get on and off is too challenging - not to mention how all the drivers rush you, ignorant of your well-being.
I get taxis because I distrust ubers. Not the people, note, but the company. If people do not take taxis, then another institution that employs immigrants and working-class peoples will crumble under another Silicon Valley monolith. I do it not for money, nor for efficiency (as I’ve heard uber is quite convenient), but for the public good.
The sun is out, and glazes a large hill in the distance, its green grass now saturated with health. Ancient trees with deep memories of the history and culture of our land and peoples, spindle up, their brown branches and dark green leaves appropriate contrasts to the hill. And a road winds up, tickling the surface of the hill, leading to a flat section atop it, where a tall thin monument pierces the sky. Usually, the monument would pierce my psyche; I would feel ashamed of what it stood for - the essential slaughter of an indigenous population; but now with the virus defeated, with people moving freely about as one despite their differences, I cannot help but feel proud.
Although it only took seven months, shorter than expected, the journey felt a lot longer. Whatever ‘burden’ Thommy mentioned was to be placed on my back, neither him, Terrance, nor any of the other academics or intelligence officers I dealt with, could have predicted its true weight. I have swum upstream - and I can’t even swim.
The Uniform Positive Test, faked for this whole operation to work, was conducted by two men: Thommy and another virologist called ‘Dr Little’, although that wasn’t his real name. He shared our country's accent, but Thommy told me, against his orders, that apparently the Dr had been flown in from overseas from a massive, revered institution. I initially sought to understand the science and trickery behind the fake positive, but it was beyond my ‘social science mind’ as Thommy loved to tease me.
After I was confirmed as ‘Uniform 1’, I was placed in managed isolation for three months, a little cottage on the outskirts of our biggest city. I saw only one person: Some sort of nurse, who fed me, took my blood, and said as little to me as she possibly could, little witch. Although the cottage was pleasant, with a lush garden and intriguing indigenous fauna, I was only allowed outside for half an hour each day. Reason being “some anti-lockdown crazy could come and try to catch the virus off you”. Even though I didn’t actually have the virus, looks were important.
Also important was name suppression. At the initial meeting with Terrance and Thommy, they assured me, never - as long as I live and passed into the will of any children I have - will anybody outside the Operation Plug team have knowledge of my name, unless I permit it. Even the nurse didn’t know my true name - she thought I was called Samantha. I must admit I did enjoy being called ‘Samantha’ after a while. Additionally, the university was told that I contracted breast cancer, and had been moved to a special facility in the capital. Conveniently, treatment lasted three months, as long as managed isolation.
Once I was out - once the media had confirmed to the public that Uniform 1 was contained, and there had been no further cases - I returned to my role as a university lecturer, doing zoom classes, of course. We were still - to my and Thommy and Clara’s surprise - in lockdown for a further two months. By the time the government decided to open up the country, Alpha had basically disappeared: Only one person, on average, died a month. Additionally, as we predicted, other serious illness deaths went down because of the release of ICU beds from Alpha patients, and road deaths drastically decreased. There were even calls to tax car emissions even further to de-incentivise driving once lockdowns were lifted.
Now, two months later, people are out and about, doing the things they used to do. Having a picnic with their family at the local park, doing something dangerous like surfing, and even clubbing. Although Alpha is still about, I realise that there needs to be a threshold where individuals can divulge in the excesses of our society. Compared to before Uniform 1, the threat of dying from Alpha, and even contracting it, has diminished considerably. We have protected them long enough. And interestingly, by sacrificing myself, my previous animosity toward the freewheeling, mask-less citizen, has diminished. By completing my duty, by extrapolating my being onto the collective, I feel closer to the ordinary person.
This wonderful result has made me reconsider my daily actions. When I was younger, I used to volunteer; for the Red Cross, the Salvation Army, even at sports events though I despise sports. In particular, I used to volunteer at a homeless shelter, helping cook stews and heat pies in my late teens and early twenties. It has been over a decade since I last completed this honourable act; and now I feel compelled to aid those that suffer most, again. I am truly grateful I became Uniform 1: The Plug.
“Here,” I say. “On the left, behind that blue car, you see.”
“Ah yes,” I think the man says, muffled, through his mask.
We pull up and I pay the man. He gets out, rounds the car, and opens my door, helping me out. I can tell by his eyes he is smiling in reaction to my appreciative eyes. You wouldn't get this with uber, I couldn’t help but think. I thank the kind man and turn to face the building. A series of concrete arches lead to a simple block-shaped two storey facade. I scour my memory: I’m pretty sure this building was used to intercept and decipher codes from the Japanese in the Second World War.
Inside, I tell a receptionist my name, and she points me through two swinging doors. When I enter, immediately I recognise a face: Amanda Jones, the woman who mentored me at the old homeless shelter across town.
“Darling!” she cries.
“Darling!” I repeat.
We hug and minutes fly by as we share fragmented anecdotes of the last decade. “Gosh, sorry my dear,” she says after finishing a story, “I must be getting back. These lads are getting hungry.” She rubs her belly, and we laugh. “Here, do you want to get straight into it?” She asks if I want to compact meatballs, but I tell her I want to serve, interact with my people.
She leads me to the far wall where a series of large pots and other bowls sit before a wide serving hole, administered by a thin lady with tattoos. Amanda introduces us. The lady describes what’s in the bowls and shows me the approximate portions. She tells me it is not like the old days; the men and women aren’t as rough, do not demand seconds, or call you horrible names. What a wonderful world, I think, when even your homeless are civilised! She serves a couple of men, before she allows me to take over. “I’ma go have a ciggie break,” she whispers cheekily, and leaves.
For the first few men, anxiety beholds me. Their trunk-like forearms, tattoos, and harsh eyes, prevent me from developing a ‘Hi,’ into a conversation. However, after a while, like the lady said, their subdued and even polite demeanours relax me, and I decide to ask a man his name.
“Ah, Jason. Jason O'Leary.” He replies. He looks rough. A winding chain of skulls, with fire exploding from their eye cavities, runs down one arm. On the other a Dragon breathes yet more fire that intertwines with its pointed tail.
On top of the spaghetti, I place a decent chunk of meatballs. “And where are you from, Jason?
“Ah up North,” he says, eyeing the plate. I place a garlic bread on it.
“Oh yeah?” I say, in a voice suggesting that he elaborate. He doesn’t. “Where up North? What’s your story Jason?”
He looks at me blankly. Shit. I suddenly feel incredibly condescending. Fortunately, he eases my discomfort by smiling. He must have been talked to this way many times before.
“Ah, usual story really,” he begins when I hand him the plate.
“What do you mean?” By now he perceives my sincerity, so instead of leaving with his food, he lingers and shares his story.
Jason O’Leary’s father was Irish. He immigrated because of an opportunity on an oil rig off the coast. Liking the country, he stayed, married a local woman, and had two children, Jason and his younger brother, Timothy. Timothy died when he was five, killed in a car accident when his father smashed into a power-pole, with a blood-alcohol level ten times the legal limit. Drinking would become a frequent cause of violence in their family. His father was jailed for two years for domestic abuse, and eventually he himself died, committing suicide by jumping off the Harbour Bridge. For his teenage years, his mother raised Jason herself, but she too had a problem, this time with prescribed medications. She died of a suspected accidental overdose when Jason was 17. He made sure to emphasise ‘accidental’. By this time Jason had been involved in low-level criminality: Selling drugs, boosting cars, robbing houses. After joining three different biker gangs, his behaviour was exploited by the federal government: He was caught in a two-million-dollar seizure of methamphetamine and went to prison for ten years. Now in his thirties, Jason wanted to alter his trajectory, get a proper job, and maybe even get a wife and start a family. He started working at a local building site, as a labourer, and over time, became a fully certified builder. A few years ago, he met a woman, Amy, and they had a child. They named him Timothy.
“So how,” I say, stopping myself. He intuits the rest of my question.
“Sounds good, doesn’t it?” he says, looking down at his food, the steam no longer emanating from it. “But how did I end up here, homeless?”
I nod.
He sighs, “It was the lockdowns. The last one specifically, the Uniform one. My company could no longer support their local foreman, me. For smaller organisations, the wage subsidies ran out about a month into the lockdown. I was lucky to be a foreman, because I woulda lost my job a lot sooner. A lot of guys - you know the chippies, plasterers, labourers, they lost them last lockdown; ya know, the one last year.”
I stare at him, my chest tightening. “What … What happened to your family?’
“Well, because of the lockdown last year, I was already basically on my ass, the marriage was turning to shit, she wanted to leave. Yeah, I probably coulda done better for sure but … anyway, when the past lockdown hit, the most recent one, she just left and took Timothy. And I don’t blame her, ya know. She could see the writing, or whatever. Her husband could not only no longer support her and her kid, but himself too He was destined to be on the streets. And she was right. Within two months of losing my job, I was evicted and had to resort to … this.”
I suddenly feel like that anchor again, dropping into the sea.
“I guess right now,” he continues, looking down at his food gratefully, “I’m just lucky they found me when they did.” I frown at him, and he shows me one arm. A thick pink scar runs down it, cutting the dragon in two. “Some guys weren’t found, ya know.”
“What … do you mean?”
He shrugs and looks at me; the ‘that’s just the way it is’ look. “They killed themselves. Shit, better than ending up here, at least that’s what I thought.” I glance around the shelter, at the other homeless people, now having to hold myself up on the bench. He turns and looks around too, “most of these guys and gals, most of them are here primarily because of the last lockdown. Like me.”
I can no longer reply to him, and he takes it as cue to leave and eat his food. Another man is asking to be served, but I cannot see him, my vision is one narrow blurry hole, as if I were looking up, from the bottom of a well.
“Darling!” Someone calls, “Darling! It’s Amanda, are you okay?” She holds my arm.
“I think, I think ...” I manage, “I think I need to leave.”
Chur,
The Delinquent Academic