Growing up in Tier 3000, page 14
NO I DON’T THINK SO.
“Any decidual hemorrhaging?”
WHAT’S THAT?
“Do you see any blood anywhere?”
NO.
“Hydatiform placental degeneration?”
COME ON MOM.
“Premature rupture of membranes?”
NO.
“Cord anomalies?”
MINE LOOKS BEAUTIFUL.
“Endocrine balance?”
NO SWEAT.
“Displacement or retroplacement of the uterus?”
I’M SNUG AND NICELY FITTED IN HERE.
“Any hints of trauma because of radiation, electric shock, lightning, alcohol…”
NO, BUT YOU DOWNED A BLOODY
MAGUERITA THE OTHER DAY THAT
SCARED ME. AND BIG DADDY NEEDS
TO WATCH HIS SCREWING WHILE
I’M IN HERE. THE ENDOMETRIUM
ENGORGEMENTS ARE FUN FOR YOU-ALL,
BUT NOT FOR ME.
“Has our exodus bothered you?”
NO. I THINK IT MADE ME FEEL BETTER.
“Here come the men with some lovely soft fronds for you to land on—”
YOU’RE NOT GOING TO DROP ME, ARE YOU?
“No, baby, you’ll be fine. There, Jonas, make a nice nest for the baby.” The men drop the thick fleshy fronds and arrange them into a circular nest.
“Have you felt any external trauma?”
NO, BUT YOU SOMERSAULT A LOT.
“Any RH dyscrasia?”
I DON’T UNDERSTAND, MOTHER…
“Are there any particulates bugging you? Any gnats in the air? Any hairy pebbles?
NO, NOTHING BUT AMNIOTIC GOODIES.
“Any effacement of the cervix?”
IT’S JUST BEAUTIFUL.
“How does your metabolism feel?”
LIKE WARM GLOWING ANTHRACITE COAL. “PBI’s?”
NEAT AND TANGY AND PROTEIN BASED, JUST LIKE NEW.
“Vitaminic loadings?”
VERY NICE.
“Well, it looks like you’re ready. I hope you haven’t been picking at your vernix caseosa again—you’ll need it for lubrication. About how long is your hair?”
ABOUT ONE INCH.
“Do you have finger and toe nails?”
YES. PROTRUDING A LITTLE.
“The circumference of your head should equal the circumference of your shoulders. Can you tell if this is so?”
NO, MOTHER.
“I’ll have Jonas check that. Jonas, go get a nice lamp to hang over me—something, say, like the Bethlehem star, and maybe some strobes to light up the undersides.”
“Any more pains?”
“Yes, but no crisis yet. I’d like some music, too—”
I LIKE BACH!
“Noble choice,” Jonas says, “we’ll try some nice little things from Anna Magdalena’s book—”
I DIG CONVOLUTED FUGUES.
“How about me?” Carol asks. “Let’s see, music to parturate by. I’ll go along with JSB, just keep it serene, at least for awhile. I want to deliver, not be delivered.” She walks toward the leafy nest. The sky is dark and silent. Carol defluxes her toga and stands nude. She walks on to the leafy fronds and stands in the center, a white pistil in a green corolla. The men murmur soft tones of awe and seem to want to worship her. Jonas approaches, also somewhat awestruck.
“Put a forcefield over us, Jonas, and the light above me, and the strobes beneath. I’m going to keep my lovely pubic hairs. Stand close by me, there, face to face.” Carol alters her stance, planting her feet apart, angled slightly outward, and places her arms akimbo. She looks at Jonas. “Ready?”
“My goddess of life,” he says, “yes.”
Carol looks at the circle of men, the softly glowing dome, the will-of-the-wisp globe above her, and the strobe lights beneath. The lights cast long shadows on her, as she begins to lower herself very slowly, hands on her knees, squatting down in a deep-settled hunker posture. As she rocks, ever so slightly, she puts her arms straight out, so that her triceps rest on her knees. Jonas lowers himself to face her.
“You may kiss the gateway of life,” she says, looking steadily at Jonas. Jonas rolls supine and positions himself under Carol, kissing the labia into increased dilation.
“Now, come and lock hands with me,” she says, “until the head of the new one protrudes, then, cradle the head, and help in lowering the baby to the ground.” The 147 cantata begins, in beautifully controlled legato, flowing, flowing. Carol lowers her head as a contraction bulges the perineum. Jonas moves to massage the area, somehow knowing that this will prevent tearing. The bulge continues with each contraction. Soon a little of the baby’s head is visible. “I want a mirror,” Carol says, and Jonas quickly places one beneath her. Each contraction brings a little more of the head into view, then slowly it disappears. Now it remains visible between each contraction.
MOTHER, THE SKIN ON THE TOP OF MY
HEAD IS BEING FORCED TOGETHER…
“Be cool, little one, you’re a rubber ball being pushed through a bottleneck.”
STRETCHING, STRETCHING, PUSHING,
ENERGY, PUSHING, STRETCHING…
“His head is in my hands,” Jonas says, tears in his eyes. The men have dropped to their knees and moved close to Carol.
GOD IT’S COLD OUT HERE. GET THIS CAUL
SACK OFF MY FACE!
Jonas feels the slick head, his fingernails cannot penetrate the sack. He gets a finger under the chin and tears the sack loose.
YAY, THANKS DAD—HEY, NO KISSING!
Jonas sucks fluid from the nostrils and throat. The baby cries—a reflex cry—then a tiny voice comes out in crisp articulation: “Wipe my eyes. I want to see my mother.” Jonas kisses the eyes, sucking them gently. The tiny body turns sideways, as if someone inside were turning it, and another contraction pushes the baby out on to the leaves. Carol picks him up and hugs him, the cord still attached, and still inside her.
“My lovely baby boy!” Carol says.
“You feel good, mother, but I’m still cold as hell.”
“Jonas, get something to keep our boy warm.”
“Beautiful,” the priest says, “a religious experience, a communal joy.”
“Hey, who are these chink-looking cats?” the baby flares. What have we wrought, Jonas thinks.
“What brand of world is this? Here, let me suckle this snowy breast. I can bite it, too…”
“Please don’t, baby.”
“Daddy-boo looks moderately juvenile there—what are you cats gaping at? Go do some ablutions—you know—like, some Shintos or some Hail Marys. Go change some water into wine. Give me that towel, Dad —ah, Jonas—well, come on, what’s the matter with you? Of course I can dry myself. I need to jog a little. Good old proprioception and kinesthesis. Hey, that feels good. How about some clothes? Color? I don’t care. Or skip the duds and just lay an isomorph on me. How about some M and M’s? Got any onion rings? Dark ale? No, not pale beer—dark ale, you know, like BOCK, the jazz off the bottom of the keg. How about changing that cantata to a fugue? Mother—Carol, baby—you turn me on. Of course I can do spermatogenisis. That’s a dumb statement. Incest is just an anthropologic artifact. What better way to initiate a boy into heterosex? Hey, where are you going? Get out of the way, slant eyes. So, this is my flitter. Pretty nice. MY in the editorial sense, Jonas. Feeling possessive is corny. Besides, I’m family, right? Any sibs? Good. How about pets? Do I get my own trivid? Here, let me take the controls. I want to sit in Carol’s lap. I like you nude. Why are we flying so low? Where are we going? Let me try that other tit. No, that’s not my umbilicar stump, mother. Well, I can’t help it if you get me tumescent. Why did we leave those guys back there? Why did you walk away from me? Hey, a shooting star! And intermeg cruisers —Hey, wait, I don’t have any implants yet—no fair stunbolting—hey, dad, don’t do that—OW!”
“Christ, doesn’t he ever shut up?” Jonas says, placing the dazed little form on a niche.
“Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny, dear,” Carol says, “just think, you get to relive your life through your very own son.”
“Happy days are here again,” Jonas sighs. “The first thing we’ll need is a tough materno-surrogate.”
“You had to have one when you were little. You know, we are royalty without any clothes.” The flitter settles down at the edge of the butte. “What will become of us? I want to hug my baby.”
“We’ll be growing up again,” Jonas says, “and 3000 is a good tier for that.”
“Come kiss me, but keep an eye on the brat.”
“We’ll have to go back to Oak Park, Carol.”
“That will be nice, dear, will they take us back?”
“I’m sure they will. I hope they will. Anyway, we’ll blast off at dawn.”
“We’ve only been gone a few hours. Let’s leave right now.
“Do you really want to?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not certain how things will work out.”
“Better to be prodigals than exiles.”
Carol gathers the baby in her arms as the flitter hovers over the spongy turf. The craft lifts off slowly, moving over the precipice and the lapping waves. It angles gently and begins a shallow arc up into the velvet sky. The men below lift their eyes as the drive cuts in, flaring a golden borealis across the sky.
Felix G. Gotschalk, Growing up in Tier 3000
