Drop by Drop

12

Jack Reece paused in the living room doorway with a copy of The Sycamore Seed tucked under his arm. His aunt had a guest, a not uncommon occurrence on Saturday morning. Bea’s house was in a long-established neighborhood. Friends often stopped by to chat with her when she was not at work.

This visitor did not resemble Bea’s usual friends.

Jack shot a quizzical glance at his aunt.

The height of Lila’s notoriety had coincided with Jack’s most prolonged spell of globetrotting. By the time he returned the town’s interest had been captured by another tumultuous presidential election followed by a steep recession. Bea was uncertain how much he had heard about Lila—if anything. She believed old scandals were best left alone.

Fortunately she had the old courtesies to fall back on. “Lila, this is my nephew, Jack Reece. Jack, Lila Ragland.”

Bea was watching her nephew’s expression. It was obvious the name meant nothing to him. “Do you want some iced tea, Jack?”

“No thanks, I just brought you a copy of the paper. The Seed has the local news, and our wallscreen’s not working,” he explained to Lila.

“I’ve always liked newspapers myself,” she said. “And real books with hard covers.”

“You and my aunt have something in common, then. She loves to read thrillers.”

Bea reached for the newspaper. “Is there anything in here about the Change?”

“It’s all about the Change, but not much that’s really new. A physicist in California did suggest that the squeezing and stretching of gravitational waves was affecting the planet.”

“How would that work?”

“Don’t ask me, I’m not a physicist.”

“He knows something about everything, though,” Bea boasted to Lila. “Jack of all trades.”

“And master of none,” he added. “Now tell me something about you, Lila. Where do you—”

She stood up. “I’m sorry, but I have to go now. I have a lot to do.”

“When you have that certificate bring it to the bank,” said Bea, “and we’ll help you.”

After Lila left Jack commented, “That’s an attractive woman. Have you known her long?”

“I don’t really know her at all. Her mother may have been a customer of the S and S, but as you saw for yourself, she’s not very forthcoming. Now, let’s see what’s in the paper.”

She read aloud, “‘Mitchells Motors on Davis Street reports that new automobiles equipped with android boosters are not selling, even with real rubber tires. Customers are asking for old-model used cars with manually operated windows and door locks.’ Hunh! Abraham’s not for sale at any price.”

Jack said, “The AllCom market’s suffering too. The newest ones seem to be failing first.”

“And listen to this,” Bea went on. “In the competitive world of online shopping, business has slowed to a trickle. Telesales employees are looking for other work. Advertising revenues generated by data gathering from high-end consumers are dropping alarmingly.”

Jack shook his head. “No wonder people are freaking out.”

Frank Auerbach knew a lot about advertising revenues. A fourth-generation newspaperman, he had watched with a heavy heart as social media decimated the industry he loved. The attention span of the public had been shrinking by the day. Few would take the time to read an entire page of newsprint anymore. The once-healthy circulation of The Sycamore Seed had dropped to a few hundred diehards who did not provide enough income to keep the presses running.

Frank Auerbach had not given up.

As the Change progressed he sought to provide a positive voice for a town teetering on the brink of a panic. “We are in an undeclared war,” he wrote in a front-page editorial, “which is imposing a new sort of rationing. We have endured rationing before, we can adapt. Toothpaste containers have failed, but we can mix salt with baking soda and continue to care for our teeth. Beginning with this issue, The Seed will be offering helpful hints to its readers. Please send us your own discoveries for the benefit of your friends and neighbors.”

As components of his printing machinery began to fail Frank was fighting back. He improvised where he could; found or fashioned replacements. In desperation he dragged outdated equipment out of storage until what he had looked like something out of the nineteenth century, but was still serviceable. No plastic parts.

A member of his staff showed up one day with an ancient typewriter. Frank appropriated the relic and set it up on his desk beside his computer. He sent his wife halfway across the state on a bus in search of typewriter ribbons.

His employees teased him at first, then began looking for typewriters of their own; Royals and Underwoods from the last century, constructed of metal. They made a terrific clatter, but they worked.

The redbrick building that housed The Sycamore Seed began to smell the way it had smelled when Frank Auerbach was a small boy; an amalgam of metal and ink and physical labor performed by men with their shirtsleeves rolled up.

“The Change is happening faster now,” The Seed reported. “The outskirts of Sycamore River are being littered with the corpses of consumerism. People are dumping nonfunctional, big-ticket appliances on curbs and along roadsides. Freezinfridges, washing machines, even supercycles and ride-on mowers—we urge you to retain these items for spare parts. You will need them in the future.”

The calm editorial voice of The Sycamore Seed had a steadying effect on the town, though a barely contained hysteria was building beneath the surface.

As social media sites faded ghostlike from their computer screens, Nell expected her children to respond with adolescent histrionics. Colin was outraged that he could no longer communicate his feelings directly to the sports stars of the moment, who he assumed were eager for his critiques of every game.

Jessamyn had revealed an unsuspected maturity. “I don’t think I’ll miss it very much, Mom. The internet’s, like, awful for self-esteem. If anybody’s going to call me fat I’d rather they said it to my face. Lots of snot-clots are hovering over their keyboards waiting to destroy other kids.”

Nell frowned. “I hope you haven’t been doing that.”

Jess dropped her eyes and pleated the sleeve of her blouse instead of answering.

The nation received a shock when two high-speed passenger trains on the East Coast found themselves on the same track but going in opposite directions. The carnage was massive.

In the Oval Office at 1600 Pennsylvania the president complained to the secretary of state, “Is everything on God’s green earth dependent on computers? How the hell did we let that happen?”

The small annoyances which had heralded the Change were as nothing compared to the discovery that a large part of the nation’s ground transportation network was compromised. The national highway authority predicted that automobile traffic in the United States could be cut in half by Christmas.

With a corresponding decrease in carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, as meteorologists pointed out.

To the average American male, whose automobile was emblematic not only of his financial status but also of his manhood, the situation was personal. “Road rage has taken on a whole new meaning,” the Seed reported. “Those who can still drive their cars are becoming the victims of those who cannot.” At first they were punched and cursed; soon they were being shot and stabbed.

Shay Mulligan and Gerry Delmonico still went for occasional runs together. The Change had been their major topic of conversation until Gerry announced, “We’re pregnant.”

A smile furrowed the meadow of Shay’s freckles. “Gloria must be thrilled.”

“She is and she isn’t. We’ve waited so long, and now it seems to have happened at just the wrong time.”

“How can there be a wrong time for something you’ve wanted so much? The Change is a big mess, I know, but we’ll get through it.”

“Will we?” Gerry asked glumly. “I’ve lost my job at RobBenn. ‘We’re sorry, but…’ You know the drill, Shay. Bennett’s not sorry about anything but losing business. They don’t need anyone in the lab now, the assembly line’s shut down. So I’m unemployed and there’s a baby on the way. I’ve put money aside over the years, but it won’t last forever.”

“There must be plenty of other things you can do.”

“An industrial chemist in a town with no industry? We love our house, we don’t want to sell it; it’s ideal for raising children. But if I do find another job how will I get there? My tires have a whiff of rotten eggs and the ones on Gloria’s car are shot. I can run a few miles on shank’s mare, but that’s no way to commute to work. Or get to the grocery store or the doctor… the doctor, for God’s sake! Do you know any local doctors who still make house calls? I’ve put my name down at my car dealer’s for a set of high-performance tires, but there’s an eight months’ waiting list and it’s getting longer every day. You don’t know how lucky you are to have your place of business attached to your house.”

“You think so? How are people without tires going to bring their pets to me? This thing’s having a tremendous ripple effect, we’re all stretched to deal with it. The town’s hoping to add more buses, but the mayor says there’s no money in the budget. Even if there were, what’s to prevent the buses from… say, how do you feel about dealing with the black market?”

“What does a straight arrow like you know about the black market?”

“In times like these a guy can’t afford to be a straight arrow. You know Eleanor Bennett?”

“Not personally, but of course I know who she is.”

“She’s been a client of mine for years. When she brought her dogs to me for their annual inoculations I commented on the fact that she was still driving her car. She told me her husband bought high-performance tires from a ‘private source,’ as she put it, a garage on the north side. Bud Moriarty and a pal of his had realized what was going on before the rest of us did, and cornered the market. Tell them Rob Bennett’s wife recommended them; I suspect you’ll get your tires.”

“How do I pick them up?”

“Problem solved. Day after tomorrow, my boy Evan is taking delivery on the slickest bit of transport you ever saw. It’s what used to be called a pony and trap; a light cart that can carry two or three people and be pulled by a pony or a small horse. It was made by a retired fellow this side of Benning who builds reproductions of horse-drawn vehicles as a hobby. I ordered this one for Evan’s birthday present not long before the Change set in. That chestnut mare of his is in foal and I thought it would be easier on her than carrying my big lug of a son on her back.”

“Pony and trap,” Gerry repeated. “I like that. You, my friend, are either prescient or a certifiable genius.”

“You may be right. I’ve just ordered a full-sized carriage that can carry more passengers. It could be the start of the River Valley Transportation Service.”

“Do you plan to issue stock?” Gerry asked hopefully. “And hire a driver, maybe? There’s enough room for a barn at the back of my place: I’m tired of mowing all that grass anyway.”

By late summer the World Wide Web had gone down. A bit at a time, but down. For Americans born and bred in the computer era, the larger world ceased to matter. Focus narrowed to Here.

As it became impossible to hide behind an enhanced image, individuals were forced to deal with each other in person. Millions discovered that electronic friends were actually strangers. Internet-addicted urban dwellers experienced something akin to rural isolation.

Frank Auerbach felt it was time for radio to stage a comeback. With his usual resourcefulness he located an ancient crystal set that had no suspect components and could be coaxed by a skillful ham operator into providing satisfactory short-wave reception. Soon he was making contact with similar enthusiasts who kept him supplied with news from beyond the Sycamore River Valley.

He made the announcement in The Sycamore Seed, adding, “Although it is a catastrophe with global ramifications, the failure of computers puts an end to cyber crime and the scourge of internet trolls. Sadly for retailers, the ability to influence consumers through social media has been lost, and the end of shopping online and internet banking is a massive inconvenience. We can be thankful that the US Postal Service has I-Roads for its mail carriers. Those one-person vehicles use special tires so the mail still goes through. Commerce in this great nation is badly wounded but not destroyed.”

Standing on the southeast corner of Elm Street, Jack Reece observed how different the town looked with so little traffic. Within his range of vision and prematurely bedecked for Halloween with black and orange crepe-paper chains were Goettinger’s department store, Deel’s hardware, The Magic Carpet, Ye Olde Booke Wurm, and Gold’s Court Florist.

So far the Corner Pharmacy (Open Till Ten), the Fletcher Building, the Sycamore and Staunton Mercantile Bank, Ralph Williams’s insurance agency and In-a-Minnit dry cleaners had been spared the spiderwebs and witches on broomsticks, but it was only a matter of time. What Sycamore River did last year it intended to do this year. If possible. A lot of ingenuity would be needed to find satisfactory replacements for inexpensive plastic decorations.

The town looked better without them, Jack decided. Nineteenth-century brick and stone buildings still standing in the twenty-first century, as solid and confident as ever, were mellow in the slanting sunlight of autumn.

Why did I used to hate Sycamore River? There must be some truth to the old adage about familiarity breeding contempt. At sixteen I was bored to death with the ordinariness of it. I felt trapped among thousands of other people who were as bored as I was. Where was the excitement? Where was the adventure? I couldn’t wait to escape.

Which shows how much a kid knows at sixteen.

He strolled down Elm and turned left at the drugstore, into Miller’s Lane. There were even fewer Halloween decorations there. Just ahead Arthur Hannisch was adjusting the striped awning above the display window of his jewelry store. When he noticed Jack he said, “Hi, buddy, long time no see. You been abroad again?”

“Not recently; you might say I’m in and out. Seems like I can’t stay away from the high life of Sycamore River for very long.”

“Yeah. Well. What you see is what you get.”

“How’re things with you, Art?”

Hannisch tugged at an earlobe. “Could be better, we’re struggling through every day and trying to keep things working. Betty Ann’s not teaching in the middle school anymore.”

“I thought your wife loved teaching.”

“She did; she does. But that high-tech equipment the board of education spent our tax dollars on has disintegrated and taken a lot of jobs with it. The schools will be going back to pencil and paper, but my generation’s finding it hard to cope. Facebook was the way Betty Ann viewed the world, y’know. She’s like the kids, nothing’s real if they don’t see it backlit on a screen. Without social media my wife doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

“Is she helping you out in the store?”

The other man gave a hollow laugh. “You must be joking. As it is I’ll have to let my only employee go. You remember Maude Foley? A widow with grown children? She can sell fleas to a dog, that woman, and she’s been with me for years. I’d like to keep her through Christmas, but we aren’t making enough to cover our overheads, never mind her salary. I’m worried about her, the suicide rate’s gone up since the Change started.”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

“How do we know what anyone might do these days? It’s like… it’s like a tide’s coming in, Jack. We can see it creeping toward us, getting higher and higher, but we’re on an island with no place else to go.”

“If that’s true, the whole world’s an island.”

“Yeah. Do you think the tide’ll go out again?”

Jack forced a grin. “Sure I do, Art. This is a crisis, but every crisis has an end.”

“If we live to see it. Sales of firearms are up, way up. They’re no good against the Change, you can’t force plastic to keep its shape by shooting at it, but you can let off steam by shooting at someone else if you’re frightened enough and angry enough.”