Sci-fi commentary on suburban existence

“Nobody has a heart anymore,” I said.
“Come on, baby. You’re late for your medications.”
“Fuck–“ I said, cutting myself off. I knew it wasn’t really me that wanted to finish that thought. “You know what I mean though, Cara? You do. I know you do.”
“Sure, baby,” she said and trailed her hand across my shoulders as she left me in the harshly lit bathroom, alone except for the pills, and my reflection.
Was that really me in the mirror? Most would say that guy was perfect, better than perfect, like the ones you see who look good for a living, posing in the magazines and that was all. Using their good looks to sell shit. No matter how many times I heard it said that I was a specimen, I didn’t believe it, or it felt like they were talking about someone else. Whoever that guy was in the mirror looked sad as hell.

Then the cup was in my hand, Cara’s fingers encircling my wrist as she rested her cheek on my arm. Both I and the guy in the mirror looked over at her, confused. Where did she come from? “Honey we can’t go through this every night. You’ve been in here over an hour, I know how you lose track of time.”
“That’s an understatement,” I laughed. “Really? An hour?”
She lifted my wrist for me and I let her. I didn’t have to let her, but I did. The pills went down the same way they always did, bitter and sticky and foul.
“There that wasn’t so bad,” Cara said.
“Are you my nurse now?” I asked.
“You know how you get without your pills,” she said. “They’re good for you. Take them on your own if you don’t want me to be your nurse.”
The troop of chemicals bounced in my brain, trying to numb it or make it go to sleep. Trying.

“Honey? Glen!” It was her tone that meant warning. Like the pills, it too had begun to lose its effect as I got more used to it over time. I looked around, letting her have my attention. My hand was on the metal railing of the balcony.
Apparently I had been looking out at the thousands of identical housing units that stretched ahead and below, but time had slipped away for who knows how long and I didn’t remember leaving the bathroom. The monotonous streets and high rises of Esperanza made me sigh and my jaw was clenched. The wide vein in the back of my forearm was standing out. “Oh!” I said acting surprised. “I’m sorry, sweetness,” I felt my face smile. “The medicines hadn’t quite hit me yet.”
When she gently lifted my hand away from the railing, the metal was twisted and deformed under my grip. “Yeah,” I said. “The medicines hadn’t kicked in yet. I’m sorry.” I heard someone using my voice say the word medicines, which meant the drugs were starting to work. Somewhere deep down, the part of me that still held onto independence called them what they really were, poisons, chemicals.
My soul spent the rest of the night in a dark closet while the poisons lived through my body, chatting with my wife, watching my TV.

Time slipped again like the chain falling off a bicycle drive train, then it caught onto the cogs again, skipped a few times, but when it steadied itself back into line I was in the bathroom again. The razor glided smoothly across my face in the morning. Already there were pills lining up for me on the bathroom counter. They weren’t so bad this time. The insignia on my navy blue 2XL T-shirt hugged against the curve of my chest. The Maltese cross.

I didn’t recall leaving home, but all at once I was commuting through traffic. I blinked, like I often did when time slipped past me like that. The brake lights flared in front of me for miles, undulating like a huge insect with far too many eyes. The dull gray sky, the chipper radio DJ, and the bobbing of my head as I stopped and started unendingly all gave rise to a vague urge to rip off the steering wheel, which I suppose the drugs helped me suppress.

The next time the car jerked to a stop I had apparently parked it in the parking lot behind the station. I straightened gratefully when I emerged from the door. The radio died with one last vain attempt to sell me something hanging on its tinny, threadbare voice.
“Hey, Proctor,” someone said from across the lot.
“Yeah, hey.” I said. I stood head and shoulders above the other firefighters–built like a tank they said, and from another era like the tanks of old. My morning commute used to be manageable. This city used to make more sense. People used to have hearts, including me. Hell I had more than one.
I had a vision of a country lane, the morning sun flashing on the windshield as I passed through the shadows of well pruned apple trees lined up by the roadside. Now that was a commute! But where was that road now? There weren’t any hills in Esperanza and that road was on a hill. I didn’t remember.

Then I realized I was looking in the mirror again. It was a little polished piece of plastic in the back of the ambulance. I heard the other guys laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I said.
“Just mark down the tape, Prock. Put a check on the line.” I did. Then laughed at myself with them.
“Wasn’t paying attention.” I said. In fact I had been reflecting on the lack of recognition I felt toward the man looking back at me. Half black, half white. A little salt in the tightly curled black hair. Was that me? There was a break somewhere in my timeline.