Everyone’s heard of the Petrys. You may think you haven’t. You might entertain the thought that theories of familial thematic excellence propagated popularly are pre-Petry.
They’re not.
You know those Vikings that showed up in
Petry.
The Mongolian horde that laid the epic smackdown on pretty much every European army and kicked down the gates of
Petry.
Hercules?
Samson?
All Petry.
The Black Knight from Monty Python?
Double Petry.
One of the two.
*
The Recovering Ecstatic
Sunlight streamed through the blinds, forcing the deepening shadows around effulgent bars of slowly falling dust. The second hand clicked the circumference of the expression on a pale yellow clock. It was the only accompanying sound. Lamps, attentive with their carefully balanced hats, stood in corners, knelt on tables, or watched from the ceiling. The warm symmetry they could have beamed into the room disused and neglected.
Her feet were pulled onto the chair beneath her, and pleated cloth draped around her shins. A high collar framed the skin of an elegant neck that shuddered with her shallow breath. The windows muted a motor’s whir and shift as her husband’s car entered the driveway. A tear tiptoed from the corner of her eye, and she hastily wiped it away, smudging her mascara.
The key grated smoothly into the lock, spinning a quarter turn before the knob wrenched around and the door swung open.
“I’m home, Martha.” He closed the door behind him, and stood for a moment as he let his eyes adjust. A smooth black sport coat hung over a white silk sleeve, and it whispered movement as he bent to put down his briefcase.
“Martha?” A step ushered him into the living room.
“Oh, John!” She rushed to her husband, throwing her arms around him. “I have something horrible to tell you. It’s awful. I just can’t bear it any longer!”
His arms wrapped around her. Strong. Comforting. Confused. “What is it?”
“I –” She trembled, “Oh god, it’s so terrible, I don’t want to tell you.”
“No matter what it is,” he ran a hand across her hair, “I’m here for you.”
“I’m an ecstatic.”
The slow, comforting motion of his hand faltered for a fraction of a moment.
“I’m an ecstatic, John.” She repeated, burying her face into his chest and sobbing brokenly.
“It’s okay,” he blinked rapidly, “It’s not your fault.”
“But I should have stopped! Oh, I’m so ashamed.”
“No.” His voice was firm. He pulled away and looked her in the eye, “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You are my darling wife, and I love you. This is a terrible sickness, but we’ll get you better.”
They kissed, and then held each other.
“I’m so sorry, John.”
“It’s okay. You’re sick. You’re a sick, sick woman. We’ll get you help. We’ll make you better.”
*
“You cannot be serious!”
“The CPMC issued a statement –”
“It’s a crime! It is against the –”
“The CPMC issued a statement! that happiness can be used medicinally to great effect.”
“The South American drug trade has cost hundreds, maybe thousands, of people their lives,” her voice rose to be heard over the applause of the studio audience, “Buying illegal substances, like happiness, contributes to that legacy of violence. It is a crime for a reason.”
More applause.
“But physically, there is little evidence that happiness causes harm.”
Audience disapproval, “The FDA has correlated the use of happiness with an increased likelihood of asthma, myopia, and heart disease.”
“Not to mention how easily addicting the substance is!”
Loud agreement.
“Even if it was legal. Even if was perfectly healthy. Happiness has been clinically proven to be four times more addictive than marijuana, three times more addictive than alcohol, and twice as addictive as heroine. An ecstatic suffers extreme compulsions that negatively impact every aspect of their lives, and their suffering should be measured on the same scale with which we view every other dangerous substance.”
“Stay with us through the break for more discussion of the dangers of happiness. This is Sherri.
Liz.
Jill.
and Elaine and you’re watching Modern Woman.”
*
“My name’s Steve, and I’m an ecstatic.”
“Hello, Steve,” they replied. Their faces, a montage of city life, watched him with a mild supportive interest.
“This is my third year off happiness. I still struggle. Since I was laid off last year it’s been hard. I’d find myself looking up amusement parks on the internet. Buying cakes, candy bars, coffee. I returned them. I thought that maybe by walking mere inches from my addiction would make me feel better.”
“It didn’t. It only reminded me of what my life was like before. Binge eating, spending my time at work looking up jokes and magic tricks, ruining my marriage by refusing to talk about anything remotely serious. Losing sleep to eight hour Bejeweled sessions. I’d go on romantic comedy marathons, action flick marathons, even the occasionally really-stupid-movie marathon.”
Some laughter.
Steve smiled, “Anything that would keep me happy. Instead of giving my wife my attention and love, I’d want to go out or have sex. If she suggested anything else, I’d just avoid her.”
“I was a monster. I was controlled by my need for happiness. I had to feel that flush of positive emotion. I would sacrifice anything or anyone that stood between me and my craving. But not anymore.”
“I’m free of it. I’m okay with being sad. Or even just mediocre. There’s a satisfaction to be found in accepting reality. The urge still hits me to just feel good and pretend that the uglier parts of my life or the world don’t exist. For people like us, it won’t ever completely go away. I can accept that now. But it doesn’t mean I have to give in. It doesn’t mean that I have to let happiness destroy my family again.”
“Thank you for letting me share.”
Soft applause.
*
“Sir, put it down. Put it down now.”
Sweat beaded on the teen’s forehead, “Just a little hungry, officer.”
“I’ve seen your type before, kid. Put it down.”
“I’m having a rough day, okay?!” His voice broke. His hands fumbled with the wrapper.
The officer kept a hand on his gun as he talked into his receiver, “I have a 5150. Code 3.” He pointed, “I said put it down, kid!”
The teen shoved the candy into his mouth, threw the wrapper at the police officer, and darted away with a frightened look over his shoulder.
“Dammit!”
He barreled down the aisle, tripping over the sunglasses rack that the junkie had knocked over, “Stop him!”
The cashier cringed away from the wild-eyed teen, but just as he crashed against the door that said “PULL” a trucker pushed his way in. “That you, Donnie?” The big man scratched his jaw, “You don’t look so good.”
Donnie had barely got into his feet when the officer tackled him.
“Paul! Help me, Paul!”
The big trucker shifted his weight uncomfortably.
“Stop fighting me, kid! Do not resist!”
They crashed into a shelving unit, knocking it – and chips, batteries, flashlights, gloves, icescrapers – on the ground.
“Paul! Paul!”
Paul took a step forward, then a step back again.
Donnie thrashed wildly as the officer pulled a can of pepper spray from his belt. The teen thrust his head beneath a particularly large pile of chip bags, but polymer resin packages offered scant protection.
The officer knelt on Donnie’s back as he handcuffed the teen. He muttered irritably under his breath, and marched his teary-eyed and sputtering prisoner out the door just as several squad cars screamed up the street and into the lot.
Paul bought a candy bar.
*
“Honey, I’m making manicotti. You like manicotti.”
“Later. I’m wasting noobs.” A grim smile spread across Jessica’s face as she sniped an enemy with her ballistic knife. “Heh.”
Her husband stood behind her, holding the glass dish with oven-mitted hands. He sighed and went back into the kitchen.
The sounds of gunfire, explosions, and distorted guitars, with a vaguely near-Eastern vocal accompaniment and rave-style drumming, filled the silence he left behind. Jessica didn’t seem to mind.
“Honey.”
“I told you, not now.”
The television blipped a farewell as her husband pulled the plug. Jessica started hyperventilating. “What did you do?!
She looked over and jumped as she realized that ten people were in her living room. Some related, some just friends. She looked at her husband, “What are these people doing here, Michael? I was one kill away from attack dogs, okay? One kill!” She put down the controller, and put a hand to her chest, “I can’t believe this.”
“This is worse than the game, Jessica.” Michael looked heartbroken, “This is happiness.”
“You like it as much as I do,” she snarled, “We were happy together!”
“No,” he shook his head, “Maybe once we were. But I haven’t been happy in years, Jessica. And I’m not going back to that life. It’s wrong. If you could see through the stupor of this drug, you’d see that. We’re not happy together, honey. You’re happy all by yourself.”
Her hands were already shaking, “I’ll call the police. I have rights.”
“I’ve already called them.” He sighed, “The paramedics are on their way.”
She screamed and lunged at him, clawing at his face, “I won’t let you! I won’t be anything but happy!” Her relatives and friends clung to her, holding her down as Michael watched her and wept.
*
Michael leaned over a dog-eared pamphlet in the small room. He tried hard to focus.
Unlike other drugs, happiness can have several sources. Only resort to an intervention if a loved one exhibits many or all of these symptoms:
1. Recurrent failure (pattern) to resist impulses to engage in acts resulting in happiness.
2. Frequently engaging in those behaviors to a greater extent or over a longer period of time than intended.
3. Persistent desire or unsuccessful efforts to stop, reduce, or control those behaviors.
4. Inordinate amount of time spent in obtaining happiness, being happy, or recovering from a happy experience.
5. Preoccupation with the behavior or preparatory activities.
6. Frequently engaging in happiness-inducing behavior when expected to fulfill occupational, academic, domestic, or social obligations.
7. Continuation of the behavior despite knowledge of having a persistent or recurrent social, academic, financial, psychological, or physical problem that is caused or exacerbated by the behavior.
8. Giving up or limiting social, occupational, or recreational activities because of the behavior.
9. Resorting to distress, anxiety, restlessness, or violence if unable to engage in the behavior.
“You did the right thing, Michael.” Dr. Evans brushed her hair over an ear as she entered. “She exhibits all the hallmarks of ecstatic behavior.”
“Will she be okay?”
“An addiction to happiness is a debilitating mental illness. The physical purge will likely be over in a couple months, depending on how much is in her system. Psychologically –” She made a note on her clipboard, “Much longer.”
“Can I see her?”
“Not just yet, I’m afraid. We had to sedate her quite heavily. Right now she’s watching Pan’s Labyrinth.”
“Pan’s Labyrinth?”
“It’s like a happiness enema. It’s FDA approved, don’t worry.”
“Oh.”
“Be sure and check yourself for symptoms in the coming weeks. Performing an intervention is a traumatic experience for married couples. You’ll be especially vulnerable in the coming weeks.”
“I understand.”
“Have a good day. And don’t worry about Jessica. We’ll do everything we can to make sure she never wants to be happy again.”
*
“Tell me what you want from life.”
She took a deep breath, “I don’t really know. I’ve spent a long time thinking about what I would tell you.” She paused, “Maybe a gardener?” Her teeth nibbled at her lower lip, “Just a hobby, nothing I’m really invested in.”
“Interesting.” He dipped her right hand into a bowl of pale, viscous fluid. Her skin hardened; losing its color at places while growing darker at others.
“Am I gardening a lot?”
He repeated the process with the left hand, and set aside the bowl. “How has your education progressed?”
“I know my letters and numbers. I know enough Leryn to get by, but not much beyond that.”
“Any knowledge of the stars?” He began rubbing a balm into her arms.
“No.”
“Good with your hands?”
“Not especially.”
Fat pulled taut around her cording muscle, a writhing mass that bunched and stretched. He waited as she gasped from the pain. “Do you play any instruments?”
The young woman blinked as he applied a second dose to her arms, “I don’t understand.”
He met her eyes, pausing in his work, “Are you musically inclined?” He enunciated with a very mild patience.
She shrugged.
“Do you ever find yourself singing?”
“Why would I need this much muscle to sing?” Her exasperation showed plainly on her face.
“Drink this.” He handed her a small vial.
She eyed it, “And this will make me a gardener?”
He didn’t bother replying. Her body had already begun to change. Her sharp blue eyes had a duller cast. A rich mane of auburn hair had become a wispy halo of brittle brown. Her breasts were smaller, her face gaunt, and a lean sheath of muscle stood out sharply beneath clothes that no longer flattered her figure.
There were no mirrors in the Craftsman’s office.
She put the vial to her lips, winced at the taste, and he helped her stand. “Don’t do anything strenuous for a day. Your training will begin in a week.”
“My training?” Her eyes clouded.
“Yes.”
“For what?” She struggled to remain awake.
He opened the door, and two men walked in, taking her arms and walking her out. “For life as a warrior. Soldier or mercenary – time will tell.”
Her new muscles rippled beneath her skin, and the two men strained to keep her moving.
“Just think,” the Craftsman commented blandly, minutely adjusting his spectacles, “In twenty years you might get a chance to plant that garden of yours.” He shrugged, “If you survive.”
She lost the last of her consciousness, and was carried out.
“Bring in the next, please.” The Craftsman turned back to his table.
*
“Ambitions?” The Craftsman glanced over his next soul.
The boy shook his head, “No, sir.”
“And how is your education progressing?”
“Well enough, I suppose.” The boy shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable seat on the hard wood of the table.
“History? Philosophy?”
“I liked my numbers best.”
The Craftsman nodded, tapped his chin, and chose a vial, “Drink this.”
A pause, “What will it make me?”
“Drink it, child. The world won’t make itself.”
The potion, a swirling yellow and white, slid across the tongue and down the throat. “It tastes horrible,” the boy’s face twisted in disgust.
“Most do,” a thin smile crossed the Craftsman’s face. Briefly. “You’ll be a drunk. A violent one.”
The boy tried to stand up, but slumped to the ground instead. His eyes had already begun to close. The Craftsman knocked on his own door, and the two men came in to collect the boy. “There is a strong likelihood that you’ll kill your wife and children someday, flee to the coast, and there be caught and hanged.”
The men left, carrying the child between them. “Every society requires a few tragedies, I’m afraid. It’s expected.” The Craftsman yawned, “The next, please.”
*
“I’m good around animals. Wouldn’t mind husbandry of any sort.” The young man grinned, “I know that this sort of thing doesn’t work in specifics.”
“Of course not.” A dry agreement.
“I speak three languages. Paint. Sketch. I have quite a nice voice,” he smiled, “Everyone says.”
“Dip your hand into this bowl, please.”
“I’ve dabbled in the celestial sciences. I know most of the constellations, but haven’t quite got the knack for navigation, yet.”
“It gets easier with practice,” the Craftsman watched as the man’s fingers grew thin and delicate.
“I imagine so.” The soul watched the transformation closely. “That is incredible! Where do you learn to do that?”
“That is a state secret, I’m afraid.”
“I heard that in Leria there is a craftsman for every town. More than one for the cities.”
“A lot of strange things happen in Leria.” He knelt, adjusted his spectacles, then rubbed a paste onto the young man’s legs.
The clear definition of muscle receded, leaving a gentle curve. The coarse hair along his thigh and calf turned several shades lighter, bending to a nearly transparent blonde. “The minute detail of all this is so far beyond me.” The young man’s voice was thick with awe.
“Mmm.” The Craftsman stood, putting the paste aside and carefully handed a leaf to the soul on his table. “Rub this on your genitals.”
He blinked, “Ru…I…On my what?”
A finger pointed between his legs.
“Oh.” He cleared his throat as he put the leaf down his pants.
A vial perched between two fingers as he watched with a clinical detachment. “You needn’t be so gentle. Do it quickly and be done with it.”
“Yes, sir.” His teeth were clenched. “It stings quite a bit. Is that normal?”
“Quite. Put the leaf down next to you, please.” A pause. “Good. Drink this.”
Relief was plain on the young man’s face as he lay the leaf aside and gulped down the liquid in the vial. “What will I be?”
“A homosexual.”
He blinked. “Oh.” A small push moved him further from the leaf sitting next to him on the table. “Anything else?” Hope and confusion fought to be the clearest emotion.
“Many things, I suppose. But you won’t be known for them.” The Craftsman picked the leaf up with tweezers and threw it in a small bucket nearly filled with empty vials and used materials.
“Why?”
“A certain number are expected to exist.”
The young man flushed, “And that’s all? Nothing more than that?”
A knock on the door, and the two men came in, “We all have quotas to fill.”
*
A woman walked in. Brilliant eyes, hair that framed her face and flowed over her shoulders. A figure both sinuous and full, with skin soft and healthy.
She smiled at the Craftsman and he offered a bored nod in return.
“You can leave.”
Her smile faltered, “I beg your pardon?”
“You can go.”
“But,” she seemed to have trouble breathing, “Who will tell me what I am?”
“You’re a beautiful woman.” The Craftsman explained in a patient tone saturated with his impatience.
“Thank you.” She smiled.
“The door is behind you.”
Her smile disappeared again, “But…”
“There is nothing else here for you. I could make you ugly, but it’s quite a lot of work, and I’ve already filled my quota. I could make you a mother, but your hips would be a horrendous waste of my supplies and besides -” He glanced at her significantly, “I’ve filled my quota. I have a few slots of whore left. Would that suit you?”
“Of course not!”
“Then don’t bother complaining. There are worse identities than beauty. You can be smart, stupid, gifted, or dull, and it all will be forgiven and forgotten. Your vices and virtues alike attributed as an extension of your attractiveness. Tell yourself that you’re entitled to it, if you want.”
“I wanted to be a court advisor.” Her voice sounded hard, bitter.
“In time, perhaps, you could be a beautiful court advisor. But the beauty will come first, I assure you, and the advice a distant second.”
“Why would you do this to me?”
“I have done nothing to you.” The Craftsman sneered, “We merely become what we are expected to be.”
The door opened.
*
Last soul of the day. An hour’s work. Fifty years of age to the body. A purge for lust, desire, and strong emotion. Many lifetimes’ worth of observation. A paste for the eyes, one that made the soul scream in pain. Spectacles afterwards. Not a vial at the end, but a pint-sized ewer.
The Craftsman looked the soul over when he was finished.
“What am I?”
His thoughts were well-hidden behind the many reflections of his spectacles, “Only we can say.”
*
