Simpatico (a short story)

Zack plods slowly toward the meeting hall, past the church, past the barbershop, past the ice-cream parlor, past the big fountain with the ant statue. He feels the cobblestones under his feet, smells waffle cones from the ice cream parlor and a faint hint of old wood from an antique store. It's nice to be alone with his senses for a few brief minutes. Most of his senses, anyway.

Zach’s mouth is filled with the bitter taste of the Tylenol he just swallowed dry. Damn, but his head is killing him. Every day it seems to take more and more medicine even to dull these migraines, and in the meantime he gets to be politely avoided all day by his classmates and teachers. What he needs is a few hours of darkness and quiet, but a full town meeting can not be skipped.

The town hall rises up beyond the fountain with its thick white pillars. Zack looks up at it for a moment, rocking back and forth slightly in time with his throbbing head. The building is modeled after the familiar landmarks of D.C., driving home the significance of this place: the events here might have an effect reaching far beyond the city limits.

There is no way to open the heavy double doors quietly. Not that it matters anyway; the back few rows are already looking over their shoulders, wondering where the pain is coming from. Zack awkwardly hunts for a seat, trying to ignore the way people cringe when he moves closer to them.

Mayor Prescott has paused at Zack's entrance. Zack still thinks he looks ridiculous with his top hat and sideburns, as if he were presiding over some turn-of-the-century town every bit as quaint as it appeared. The mayor resumes his speech. “As I say, I have the distinctive pleasure of announcing that this meeting hall has not served its additional function as a criminal courtroom for six full months!”

Polite applause. Zack finds an empty chair, but before he can sit down, the woman in the next seat says, “This is saved,” and plops her purse down on the chair as proof. She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she adds in response to his obvious hurt. Where the hell are his parents? Probably closer to the front. He continues to wander.

Prescott continues. “We are scoring consistently high by every standard our founders have devised, but you need no metric to know that this place is, yes it is...different. Different from other growing cities that become more impersonal by the day. No, here in Simpatico if someone gets hurt, someone helps him!"

This brings applause and scattered cheering. The mayor grabs his lapels and continues, "If someone is sad, lonely or down on his luck, someone comforts him! Whether he be friend, neighbor, or total stranger!"

"Praise Jesus!" a woman yells.

"And most importantly of all, in Simpatico no man or woman would ever dream of lifting their hand against another. For to do that, good citizens, they would be harming themselves and moreover, there would be no hiding their crime!

"That is the Simpatico difference!" he manages before the applause drowns him out. He beams and waits patiently for the sound to fade. "Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, we come to the reason why I called this meeting. Please, try to contain your excitement.”

Zack sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Dr. Hull is signaling to him from a few rows down.

The mayor continues, “I have received word that a man from the company is coming next week to evaluate our community. If he decides we’re ready, and with a two-thirds majority vote from us, we will finally be able to move Simpatico on to Phase Two!”

This news warrants a standing ovation. Someone is yelling and whooping with particular enthusiasm; Zack wonders if it’s Dad. Zack feels the excitement around him, but does not let it infect him. With the townspeople distracted, he quickens his pace and reaches the empty seat next to the doctor. The noise intensifies his headache, so that the room seems filled with the strange bittersweet combination of pleasure and pain. “Yes,” says the mayor. “Yes…yes indeed, settle down please, we have much to do and very little time! To prepare for this momentous occasion...”

The doctor leans toward Zack and whispers, “Another headache, Zack?” Zack nods miserably.

A man behind them whispers, “I got aspirin.” He thrusts a bottle between the seats.

Someone else says, “Aspirin’s no good for migraines. Here, Excedrin.” Soon everyone within reach is offering their painkiller of choice. An older woman unashamedly holds out an orange prescription bottle.

Zack says, “I’ve been takin’ stuff all day. It just hasn’t kicked in yet.”

Hull says, “Just lie down when you get home, Zack.”

“I plan to.” Zack sighs and rubs his temples.

“So we just have to deal with this?” the first man scowls.

The doctor turns on him. His demeanor is calm, but his eyes flash. “We have to look out for each other’s best interests, sir; that’s why we share our pain to begin with. Right now I’m more concerned about the boy’s liver than his headache.” To Zack he adds, “Come by my office tomorrow after school. The machinists still haven’t responded to my concerns that there’s something wrong with your implant, so we’ll march right down to the station if we have to. Failing that, maybe I can prescribe you something new.”

The mayor is animatedly concluding a request for volunteers to help cater a reception. “Thank you, thank you all! This meeting is now adjourned. Will everyone please rise for the Simpatico town anthem, with our own Sharon Sommers accompanying us on the piano?”

***

Zack lies in bed with the lights off, absorbing the silence around him and willing it to soothe his headache. He thinks about his old life and his old school, back before this crazy old-fashioned town with its futuristic secret. Back before the migraines. Back before Dad had come busting through the front door after work, out of breath and almost incoherent with excitement.

“You know what’s wrong with the world today?” he said. He began many a lengthy speech with those words, and Zack was used to playing his DS and nodding and grunting sporadically. “The problem is people just don’t care about each other! People ignore when their fellow man is in pain, and do you know why? Do you know why, Zachary?”

Zack paused his DS and looked up. There was Dad, Mr. World-Changer, his collar undone and his forehead beaded with sweat. Zack looked quizzically at Mom, who shrugged. “No, Dad, why?”

“Do you know why, Tricia?” Dad turned on Mom. She sighed and muted the television.

“No I don’t, Frank.”

Dad spread his arms wide to deliver the gift of revelation. “It’s because they can, my loves! It’s because they can! Why, they can walk right by a homeless person days from starvation! They can hear the neighbor beating his wife and turn up the television! They can pretend that the suffering around them doesn’t exist because sympathy is a voluntary action, you see? You only need to care about others if you want to! But someone approached me with an offer today. Guy who works for a research company called Better Tomorrow. They’re going to change all that! Zachary, do you perchance know how ants know when one of their fellows is in trouble?”

Zack considered. “Some kind of smell they give off, I think.”

“That’s right. When an ant is in distress, it gives off an alarm pheromone, signaling other ants to react to the danger. They all drop what they're doing and get ready to help out, to fight or flee, just because of one little squirt of scent from one little ant. This ensures the survival of their species. Now just imagine if humans—people were the same way! Imagine if you could feel your neighbor's pain. Well, you don't ignore your own pain, do you? How could you ignore theirs?”

In time dad started speaking in more concrete terms. That’s when they learned about Better Tomorrow, about the Simpatico experiment…and about how they were moving there as soon as humanly possible.

The next few months were a blur. Zack remembered the moving truck. He remembered coming out of anesthesia in the recovery room and gingerly feeling the bandage on the back of his neck. He remembered meeting the mayor and the doctor, and the first time he felt pain that wasn’t his own—God, such a strange feeling. He remembered having wet dreams again and eventually realizing it was because his parents still made love. He remembered his first migraine.

Zack feels affection, and knows that Mom must have entered his room while he was lost in thought. Presently, she speaks. “You’re feeling better, aren’t you, Zack?”

No way to hide it. The next door neighbor can probably feel his relief. “Yes.” Something is tugging at his mind. “Dr. Hull…he…he feels it the same amount as everyone, right?”

Zack can see Mom’s silhouette in the doorway, and she nods slightly. “For the most part, yes. But I think there’s a limit for people in certain professions. Yes, your father’s mentioned that. Doctors, policemen—you know, emergency responders. They need to be able to keep a clear head when they’re working with people in pain.”

“And I guess if a cop has to shoot someone he can’t be afraid it'll hurt him too, huh?”

“Er…yes, I guess that’s true too.”

Zack looks up at the ceiling. “Still,” he says, “sometimes I think Dr. Hull ‘sympathizes’ better than most people anyway. At least, his answer to everything isn’t immediately ‘take more pills,’ you know?”

He senses Mom’s awkward discomfort. “Well, yes, sometimes people still look for a quick fix. But overall I like what this community is doing. What Prescott says is right. People are becoming more generous and they're hurting each other less.”

Zack sighs. “People avoid me when I get migraines. That hurts me.” Mom has no answer to that. Zack sits up and puts his shoes on. “Dr. Hull helps people because he’s a good man. Seems like everyone else just reacts.”

She looks away as Zack finally turns on the light. It feels good to Zack to be able to see things and not feel a hammer pound at the inside of his skull at the same time. Finally, Mom says, “Well, it’s difficult when people hurt a lot, especially when there’s not much anyone can do about it. But Dr. Hull can help you, right? We'll get the migraines under control and you won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Zack brushes past Mom and down the hallway, sees the Tupperware containers on the dining room table. “Is that the food for the Charlestons?”

Mom purses her lips. “Yes, it’s all ready.”

Zack abruptly whirls to face Mom and speaks through a lump in his throat. “Hey, Mom? What about the people who can’t stop hurting, no matter what? What good does this do them?”

Mom moves her lips, but no answer comes out. She shakes her head for a moment, then says, “Zack, that’s a very difficult question. Always has been.”

“I’d better go drop this stuff off while it’s still warm,” Zach says, and goes to find the sedan key. He works quickly, gathering up the food containers, because sure enough, Mom says something to Dad, and he’s waiting by the door.

Dad says, “Zack, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“I’m going to the Charleston’s, Dad. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Dad glares, but lets Zack through. Zack exhales heavily as he steps out into the fading light. Yet another evangelical Simpatico speech awaits him when he gets home, but at least he'll get a brief reprieve now. Some time to think.

***

Tom and Olivia Charleston are a young couple. Got married right out of high school. Tom's only a few years older than Zack and feels more like a big brother than a friend of his parents. Soon after Tom and Olivia joined the Simpatico experiment Olivia went in to see Dr. Hull for a routine checkup, and they discovered that the silent killer had crept into their lives. The treatment has been trying, and the prognosis less than encouraging. Considering the discomfort of Olivia’s treatment and the nature of Simpatico, Dr. Hull and many other citizens have recommended that the Charlestons leave for their own sake, but their strong belief in the Simpatico system won’t allow it.

Tom is sitting on the front step inexpertly lighting a cigarette as Zack pulls up to the house. His skin is smooth but pale and waxy, his eyes sunken, and veins show on his hands. He looks up at Zack and smiles wanly. “Hi, Zack. How you doin’?”

A faint ambiance of nausea seeps into Zack’s body. “I’m all right, I guess, now that my headache’s gone.” He shakes his head. All the pain behind those walls and he's chit-chatting about a little headache? “How are you…how is she doing?”

Tom sighs out smoke and stifles a cough, looking off into space. “She’s all right, all things considered. The nights are kind of rough, you know, when there’s nothing to distract her. Well, come on in. Don’t wanna leave you carrying all that.”

Inside, Tom clears a space on the kitchen counter so Zack can set the food down. Under the bright lights Zack looks Tom over again. “Jesus, Tom.”

Tom smirks. “I know, I look like hell, don’t I? My hair’s even starting to fall out. It’s...sympathetic symptoms. Like you know how some guys go through sympathetic pregnancy? God, if only that's what this was. Anyway, the machinists think we make for an interesting study. Says it might warrant a couple of tweaks to the old, ah...device.” He grinds his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “At least someone’s enjoying this.”

Zack crosses his arms and stares at the floor tiles, fighting for something to say. Without warning, his nausea grows more intense. He grabs on to the counter to steady himself, and gapes as Tom doubles over and vomits.

There is a long, awkward silence, made incomplete only by the ticking of an unseen clock. Tom spits a few times into the puddle before straightening up. He looks at Zack, his face grim. Finally he smiles, weaker than before, and says, “I sure hope that food doesn’t end up like that. Your mom sure can cook.” His knees nearly give out, but he braces himself against the counter next to Zack, spits again into the sink. “Be careful going out, Zack. I’ve gotta go make sure Olivia’s all right.”

Zack backs slowly out of the kitchen. “What about you, Tom? Are you ok? Do you need me to get Dr. Hull?”

Tom waves one hand while still supporting himself with the other. “Naw, it happens, Zack. It happens. I can take care of it. Besides, I have a feeling this’ll all be over soon, you know? I just have this feeling.”

Zack can already feel another headache coming on as he gets back in the car, and something cold gnaws at the pit of his stomach. When he gets home, yet another long pro-Simpatico rant from Dad blows over him, a pittance after what he has just seen and felt. No, not felt, sensed. The Simpatico device, whatever the hell it is and however the hell it works, can convey physical and emotional feelings from pain, through discomfort, on to pleasure and bliss, but those are different from the foreboding, the dread that he suddenly feels. That night, he dreams about drowning.

***

Morning arrives, bringing with it a strange feeling of relief mixed with terrible guilt. Though Zack prefers to block out the Simpatico sensations as well as he is able, this time he reaches out, grabs hold of this bittersweet feeling, examines every subtle flavor of it. By the time Mom burst into the room sobbing he already knows.

“Oh my God, Zack!" she chokes. "This is so terrible! Olivia Charleston…she…she died last night!”

Zack nods. "Tom killed her. He didn't want to, but he...he just sort of lost it.”

Mom gapes as if seeing her son for the very first time. Zack rubs his forehead. “I have a headache.”