Meet Franky
“Stop and surrender!” The officer shouts at me, and I wonder if he’s seen my face. “If you stop now, it’s a minor offense!”
Liar. The government, the enforcement officers, all of them. Liars. I will never stop.
My legs are burning, my lungs are on fire. I’ve been on my own since I was twelve. Since they took father away for not having his chip, the Chamber’s new all encompassing payment and healthcare tracking system. I don’t have my chip either, and I have been living behind a line of dumpsters in an alley adjacent to the market here in New Ontario. I spend my days shuffling through the stalls at the market looking for opportunities. Earlier, I spotted an elderly lady who left a bag unattended while she stopped to speak to a friend. There was a loaf of bread peeking out of the corner of her shopping bag, and I knew this was an easy grab. The growl in my gut told me that was time to make a move. I casually walked by and then stooped down pretending to tie my shoe. As I stood up, I pinched the clear plastic of the bread bag and lifted it soundlessly. Jackpot! I began to walk away, however, as luck would have it, I was made out by an undercover enforcement officer. Now I’m running to avoid capture.
I can hear the officer's breath growing heavy behind me, and perhaps it sounds like there is more distance between my footfall and his. I cannot break pace to check. I have to rely on my senses, and my knowledge of every alley, every dead-end, every short-cut. I know that in twenty yards there will be an alley with lanterns strung across, and the residents use the line to hang clothes. It’s coming up fast and I dart into the alley entrance. I’m slim and fast so I’m able to weave through the hung clothes like a border collie running an obstacle course. Suddenly, I hear a tangle of fabric and I feel relief flood my heavy limbs as I continue my stride. I know the agent is on the ground covered in a light blue bedsheet with small, white birds. I seize the opportunity and take the next right out of the alley and immediately climb up a fire-escape ladder. I sprint across the top of the building and finally catch my breath with my head between my knees. I straighten myself, run my hands through my wet, dark curls and head down the fire-escape on the front side of the building. I seamlessly blend with the crowd and make my way back through the stalls. I see the stall owners eyeing me. They all know why I’m here. They know I'm always picking through unattended bags, lifting food from unwatched shelves, and sometimes, I’m just bored and looking to ruffle some feathers. If there is one thing I’ve learned by living on the streets, it is that if you want an opportunity, you have to create it. And honestly, it’s just more fun to mess with people. They are a herd of simple sheep, listening to The Chamber for the sake of their “health”. They abide by all of the rules by being chipped, and having every purchase tracked and scrutinized. They make sure to have their routine meetings with a health advisor to make sure that their weight is in range, along with their blood pressure, and blood sugar, and whatever other numbers the algorithm wants to track. It’s for the greater good. Except that it isn’t. It’s about control. It’s about money. And the more chaos I create among these simpletons, the more opportunities I create to steal what I need.
I put my head down and decide that today isn’t the day. If there is one undercover enforcement agent, there must be more. It’s not worth the gamble. I would rather go back to the barrier than get sent to a work encampment. The thought of the barrier is like a kick to the gut. I spent about three months there with my younger brother, Joseph, after my father was apprehended for non-conforming behaviors, i.e. being unwilling to be chipped. Father didn’t want to play their game. They were mandating chips for the new health and payment system, and father wasn’t willing to submit.
“They let your mother die like a dog. If they think for a second that I’m going to let them insert a chip in my finger so they can track me like a dog, they have another thing coming!” he would shout on the phone to my uncle Frank.
Although I only heard one side of the conversation, I’m pretty sure on the other end Uncle Frank was trying to speak reason. He was probably saying things like, “Fight from the inside” or “You can’t change the world from inside the jail”. Uncle Frank was my namesake, but I go by Franky. Uncle Frank couldn’t save my father, and I think he always knew it. Once my mother passed away from cancer, Father just began to circle the drain. I never said it aloud, but Father had a point. When my mother, Marissa was diagnosed with breast cancer, her test results deemed her un-eligible for treatment. Our healthcare system was in a total collapse at the time, and the government decided to prioritize resources to individuals who were less likely to require retreatment or cause a strain on the healthcare system. Shortly after my mother died The Chamber had declared a state of emergency to get control over healthcare costs.
One night father, Joseph and I had just finished dinner and on the television, the Head of Chamber, Marco Evans, had teamed up with a tech giant who had written some sort of application that could inform public health based on consumer spending. We sat there in the glow of the television watching as Evans gushed over the new tech-turned-healthcare hero, Nico, would save the country. Evans sported a tailored suit and one of those haircuts that looked shiny and plastic. Nico, almost a counter to Evans polished persona, sat quietly - almost awkwardly - in jeans and a t-shirt. Finally, Evans gave Nico the floor. He explained that with simple tracking tools, purchases could be used to intervene and save citizens well before their health reached a crisis point. I had a hard time understanding how any of my mother’s spending habits would have flagged her doctor about her illness. Father echoed my sentiments as he sat in his recliner with a half empty beer can in his hand.
“Garbage!” He screamed at the television. “Franky, listen to me right now! That man right there doesn’t care about our health!”, he points a shaking finger toward the television. “No one gave a damn about your mother’s health! Never! Trust these people and you’ll end up like her.”
It was only about a week or so after the Head of Chamber announced this latest health tool that health advocates began knocking on doors with a handheld device that would use air and a small needle to implant the chip in your right index finger. Once installed, they would link it to your bank account and your personal identification number. At the end of your visit, you were to surrender all cash in your possession, and all cards linked to any bank account. You were offered reassurance of scanning your new chip and viewing that all of your assets were in place in the new system. All you had to do was offer your finger. If you didn’t have a finger, or hand to offer, you had the option of a wrist implant. When they knocked on our door, my father had already chosen “none” as his appendage of choice. He did offer them a finger, though it wasn’t for the purpose intended. On the next visit he was ticketed for non-conforming behavior. The following visit, an enforcement agent attended with the health advocate and all personal assets were seized. Father still refused the chip. On the final visit, a team of enforcement officers arrived and took father away as I sat in a closet with Joseph, one hand covering his mouth. By the time it was over, the hand I had used to cover Joseph’s mouth was soaked with both snot and tears. Jo was small for his age, with big, brown eyes that almost looked black. He had a crop of curls atop his head, and his front teeth had just begun to come in. He was by all accounts “cute”. Even to me. Even when he annoyed me.
I looked Joseph dead in the eyes, “I got you, buddy”. That’s what I told him. His big, brown eyes began to dry. Whether it was a lie, or the truth, I wasn’t sure. What else could I tell him though? “I know you’re hurting, and so am I?”, “Father must know what he’s doing?”, “Listen, listen, It’s not permanent.” I knew those were lies. I had to stick with the one thing I could say that might be true.
Apparently, Father had prepared for this day. In the closet there is a loose floorboard. I watched as Joseph used the palm of his hand to push the board a few millimeters to the side to create enough space to get a thumbnail between them. He inched the board up just enough to get his fingers underneath and then pulled it up. Inside, there is a black duffle bag that father left for us. Jo grabbed the bag and offered it to me with a look of trepidation. I unzip the bag and examine the contents. There are two flashlights, a rope, a knife, some dried fruit and nuts, and an envelope with three one-dollar bills and a picture of Father, Joseph and me. There is a small scrap of paper with one word on it: run. I know that there is only one place where Joseph and I can run to, and it’s the barrier communities. The barrier is the very edge of The Chamber’s jurisdiction. It’s a place of desolate, lawlessness. It’s a place for those who belong in one of two camps: the ones who had criminal records and were ineligible to be chipped, and those who fled the chip process and walked away from their assets willingly. Father thought he would be able to stand his ground. He wasn’t willing to go to the barrier, but now he’s left me no other choice. I remember the way hot rage flooded my system at my father and at the government. I knew I had to stuff it down for Jo, so I replaced the board, threw the bag over my shoulder, looked at Joseph and said, “Time to go.”
His big eyes immediately answered my question, “Okay.”
I’ve always wondered why Father had entrusted Joseph with this plan and not me. Perhaps he thought I would have called Uncle Frank. Perhaps he knew that Joseph’s quiet nature would ensure the hiding place would never be found. Maybe Father knew the end game for me all along: I am not one to be trusted. A growling protest from my belly snaps me out of my memories. My hunger is reminding me again not to get lost inside my head right now. Feeling both famished and dejected, I turn back to the alley and make my way back to the dumpster to sleep off this pain in my belly. It occurs to me that it might be time - time to figure out how to get food without stealing it. I can’t bear the thought of being chipped, but the reality is that it is becoming much more difficult to steal enough food to survive. Sure, I could go back to the barrier, but the thought of being so close to where I lost Jo is just too much. As I turn down the alley toward what has been my home since I left the barrier, I can smell the sour stench of garbage. This cannot be it for me. Wedging myself between the wall and the dumpster, I put what little strength I have in myself into moving the dumpster forward. Finally, the wheels catch, and it lurches forward. There is a recess in the wall just large enough to fit my mat, and I crawl inside. It takes longer than I want, but eventually, sleep comes for me. As I drift from reality into slumber it’s hard to tell if the buzzing flies I hear are the real ones circling above the dumpster, or the imagined flies that hover around Joseph’s dead body in my dreams.
In the morning, I wake up to the sound of a truck starting outside. I wipe the sweat that has collected over my brow and roll up my mat. The only possession I have is a small envelope, and it stays in my back pocket. Superstitiously, I pat my pocket making sure it’s still there. As if it would have the ability to get lost in the night. As if my pockets were to be picked, it would be of any value to anyone. As I walk out of the alley, I glance in a store window and make sure my curly hair isn’t wild atop my head, but I barely recognize the set of eyes looking back at me. How long has it been since I caught a glimpse of my own face? I almost mistake myself for my father. I stand there a moment transfixed. I vaguely remember my mother’s soft voice saying something like, “He’s the spitting image of his father.” I recall pride in her voice and in her eyes. I also recall the long farewell as she slowly faded from the world. I wonder momentarily if she’s somewhere heavenly, set free from her pain or if she just stopped existing. I guess she’s set free either way. I shake my head to clear my thoughts and keep walking.
Saturday is the busiest day at the market, and it’s still early. Stalls crammed upon one another for the entire length of the alley; the pathway so crowded you can either move with the foot-traffic or get trampled. The sky still has that gray quality of being not quite day and not quite night. But the reality is, I’m just as damned in the day as I am at night, so perhaps it doesn’t even matter. This is the space I occupy now: the in between. In between a boy and a man. In between what I was and who I want to be. In between hunger, and my next meal. The smell of fish, spices, cooked meats, and produce intermingle in the air competing with the shouting and haggling. I spot Ansel at a distance. Ansel reminds of the kind of cloud that hangs on the horizon threatening to unleash hellish fury. It’s the kind you look at and you can see that it’s full of thunder before you can even hear it. He towers over his employees as he lifts a giant crate of onions that the delivery girl brought from the farm. I can tell it’s heavy because you can see a web of thick veins wrapped around his thick forearms. I notice for the first time that he’s missing his third finger. They speak for a moment, and she smiles, but that smile quickly fades as Ansel notices me and frowns. Before I can open my mouth, he immediately cuts me off.
“You again? No! You’re not going to kick up a fuss on my corner. Go somewhere else.”, Ansel barks in the way that irritated men do when they’re busy.
“No, ummmm… Your confused about me. Not to say that you get confused. I mean…”, I stammer and take a breath. “I wanted to see if I could work…for you. Doing anything?”
“Ansel, give the boy a chance. Besides, you lose customers making them wait this way.” An older lady working the stall adjacent peeks over with a wry eyebrow raised.
“You hire him then!”, Ansel shouts back.
“Hmph…I already have lots of help, and you know that boy’s trouble anyways. Too much trouble for me, but I like the thought of Franky over there with you.” Philomena says as she scoops fried bread into wax paper.
“Look kid”, Ansel softens as he continues, “You got no one to vouch for you, you come here each week and you run around causing trouble. I’d hire you if you could keep yourself out of trouble.”
“Okay”, I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “I was just checking, you know?”
Ansel is eyeing me in a way that makes me feel like he feels something for my situation. The delivery girl clears her throat, reminding Ansel that she’s been an onlooker to our exchange. Ansel gives a small grunt and returns his attention to the deliveries. I feel a familiar tug of anxiety. Even if he does hire me, I don’t have my chip. My eyes wander to the customers hovering their fingertips over the chip reader that completes their purchases. It’s been seven years since they mandated the chips. Seven years since Joseph died in a fit of fever during the night.
At first, I thought we were actually going to make it. In that childlike way, I convinced myself that Joseph and I could use what little supplies father had left in that duffle bag. Those first few weeks were in the honeymoon period of early fall. There was enough sun to keep us comfortable during the day, and at night the chill was barely perceptible. Night was always the hardest for Joseph, so most of the time we would stay up listening to the crickets, watching stars, talking about how, someday, we were gonna get out of this place. As winter slowly creeped in on us, it was harder and harder to catch fish from the creek, and most evenings we were eating plants and berries. The dried fruit and nuts father had left us were long gone. He caught a cold right before the weeklong snow came and died in his sleep. I was unsure if his death spared him of more misery, or if that’s just what I told myself. On the night after he died, when the last campfire burned down, I took Joseph’s tiny body, wrapped in scrap cloths down to the lake. I found a sharp rock and methodically broke a hole large enough for his 7-year-old body to fit through. I held him one last time and took a breath, and whispered, “I’m sorry Jo. Tell mom I’ll see you both again. Promise. Okay?”, then I pushed him under. I left the barrier that morning, and that’s when I moved into the alley in town. It was a long walk from the barrier to where I am now. Long enough to cry myself dry. Long enough to make myself a promise: I’m not giving up.
Ansel’s heavy sigh breaks me free of my reverie. I flinch, expecting him to bark at me again. As Ansel likes to say, I’m always “kicking up a fuss”.
“Franky?”, he says my name as if it’s a question.
“Yessir?”, I ask in the same tone.
“I have a small shed in my yard. It’s not much, but it’s enough space for you to stay outta the rain and dirt. You’ll stay there for now, and tomorrow you come with me to set up shop. I ain’t paying you though, not yet. I’ll feed ya. I ain’t paying you though. And keep yourself outta trouble or I send you packing, you understand?”
“Yessir”, is all I can manage. Although putting up with Ansel for a free meal or two a day sounds about as good as a broken nose, this could be a new opportunity for me. I begin to wonder if he knows I don’t have a chip, but I decide to push that thought away for the moment. As I look for the girl again, I notice she has vanished, and I wonder what she made of that awkward exchange. She’s here every morning making deliveries, smiling, speaking softly. Imelda. I’m fairly sure her name is Imelda.
“Earth to Franky!”, Ansel looks angry, “Did you hear me? Meet me here at 4:30 on the dot, and I’ll haul you over to the house. Go get anything you want to bring with ya.”
“Yes…er….I will, for sure!”, I say, knowing full well I have precious little to my name. His answering grunt lets me know that I'm dismissed. I back away and make my way back down the street glancing up at the clock on a marquee. I can see that I have about six hours to pack what I need. A laugh rises from my chest as I think about it, when I see her again. The girl. She is helping Philomena unload a pallet of tomatoes. Philomena reaches up, and tucks a stray hair behind Imelda’s ear and her eyes begin to crinkle in that way that lets you know that she’s about to smile. Philomena has been cooking breads topped with all kinds of things since I got here from the barrier. She has always been wary of me, and I understand why. I’ve always felt a sense of regret that she kept her distance from me. Her round face and short, gray salt and pepper hair remind me of a teacher I had before my mother passed away. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled at me, and maybe I just wanted to feel that way again. I don’t intend to, but I overhear a part of their conversation.
“Imelda, my lady bird, I promise you your papa will be okay. Give him time.”, Philomena’s eyes are full of something I recognize: pity.
“I know that, Phil, but Dad looks like a shadow. He’s so dark. So angry. This isn’t him. Mom has some good days, and even then he still seems angry, but I’m not even sure who the anger is directed at. He doesn’t dare blame the health advocate or the advisory board. It’s like he’s angry because he can’t blame anyone. Either way, she’s not eligible for treatment and that’s that.” Imelda speaks quietly. She knows what everyone knows here: if an enforcement officer is nearby and overhear this conversation they will report her or her father for non-compliance.
Feeling like an interloper, I break away from the street and make my way back toward the alley to get my mat. It seems like Ansel expects me to show up with something and god knows I do not want to irritate this man. The sound of kids playing echoes off the buildings, and it grows louder and louder the closer I get to the alley. Suddenly, a soccer ball flies out of the alley and rolls toward my feet. I lift my shoe and gently stop the ball. Several small boys trail the ball out of the alley and stop short when they see me. My breath catches for a moment as I realize they are about the same age as Joseph was when I failed him, and he slipped through my fingers. It almost feels like they can see the replay in my head as they look at me with trepidation. It’s nonsense I know, but there are times when it feels like I wear Joseph’s death, and the blame that comes with it on my skin. One of the boys steps forward, and he looks me in the eyes and asks, “Hey, you wanna play with us?”.
“Oh, sorry, I uh…I gotta be some place soon, and…”, my voice trails off as I see the disappointment creep into his eyes. “I’ll tell ya what, we’ll play until I score a goal on you.”
The boy’s face lights up, and I feel the ball being swept out from under my feet even though he never broke eye contact. Before I realize it he’s darting around me dribbling the ball from foot to foot. He suddenly reverses course, taking the ball with him. As I break into a sprint the ball is passed to another kid, and he’s every bit as good as the last. Quickly, I realize that I’m going to have to work for this. I’m gaining ground and right as I go in for the steal, he kicks the ball between my legs, back to his friend. They are both laughing, but not in a mean way. They laugh in that way that boys do when something awesome happens. Before I know it, I’m bent over, hands on my knees, laughing with them. I catch my breath and take off again, this time I’m able to sweep the ball with my foot and lunge to bring it into my stride. Another kid is coming toward me to defend, and I use my foot to give the ball a small kick and catch it with my knee to change direction. I make my way back toward the alley because I know that must be the goal. I’ve never played with these kids before, but there is still that instinct of a boy who just knows how to play. Finally, with the alley within striking distance I catch the ball solid and guide it toward the alley with as much power as possible. The ball sails through the air and I’m rewarded with a loud thud as it strikes the dumpster. As I pump my fist into the air, the boys arrive by my side.
“I guess you have to go then?”, he says, not looking at me.
“Yeah, but I start work over here tomorrow. The market? You know where it is? I’ll be there, and if I get a break, we can have a rematch.”, I tell him.
All three of them beam at me. As the ball rolls back out of the alley, one scoops up the ball and they all take off down the street as I vaguely hear them saying things like, “so cool” and “awesome”. I see myself in the same window from this morning, but this time my reflection is smiling. A big, genuine smile. The warmth in my chest dissolves almost as quickly as I recognize the feeling. Joseph would have loved that. A deep guilt washes over me for having that brief moment of freedom and happiness. Not yet. I do not deserve this yet. I can tell by the way the light has shifted the shadows from the buildings that I need to grab my mat and get back to Ansel.
