The Egg Code (25 page)

Your Tax Dollars
at Work

http://
www.eggcode.com

The story of urine has fascinated researchers for generations. In recent years, urine testing has become the method of choice for detecting illicit substances in the bloodstream. As employers across the country continue to enforce mandatory drug examinations, the questions arise: Why urine? Why now? What’s the deal? To fully understand the extent of our government’s wrongdoing, one must first know a few things about dendrochronology—that is, the analysis of growth rings found in the trunks of perennial, wood-bearing plants. While the connection may not be obvious at first, the Egg Code would like to point out other links between apparently unrelated phenomena, links which—once unearthed— reveal a secret history of Western philosophy, religion and political thought. Video teleconferencing and the transoceanic button trade. Granulated sugar and the rise of the indentured servant. We cite only the most pedestrian examples.

Tree rings are formed when contrasting cells produce a series of colored bands, each marking a year’s growth. Dendrochronologists use specialized drills—called increment borers—to pull samples, slender cores of soft wood cut along a horizontal plane. The Department of Defense has developed its own device, inferior to the European models, but required by federal law. As a result, the International Tree-Ring Data Bank must contend with thousands of tree cores ruined each year by faulty equipment.

What is the solution? The answer, as it turns out, is urine. Urine contains nitrogen, which acts as a special solvent, balancing the negative effects of the drilling process. The way this works is very complicated. Back in the mid-1980s, the demand for urine skyrocketed. Responding to this need, the Reagan Administration—in concert with subversive elements within the Hollywood entertainment industry—launched a multi-agency “war on drugs,” a cynical sham whose only purpose was to make mandatory drug testing a nationwide standard. Make no mistake, people: all they wanted was the urine. Following a series of staged screenings, handlers loaded the urine into giant tanker trucks formerly used to transport soy milk between the coasts. Under the cover of night, the urine arrived at an abandoned quarry pit near La Junta, Colorado, where a team of dendrochronologists set upon the awful task of dunking and drying, a smelly job made worse by the bitter stink of corruption.

At this point, our story breaks down into a clouded tale of half-truths and misrepresentations. Let’s go back to 1943, when a researcher named Bruno Huber published a paper on the degrees of similarity among various trees within the same growing zone. Huber termed this factor
Gleichlaeufigkeit,
or “running similarity.” He quantified his research by using a binary code, a massed sequence of ones and zeros—the same principle behind our modern-day computer technology. This point was not lost on the Gloria Corporation of Ann Arbor, Michigan, current administrators of the network protocol for North America. Working through a liaison at the National Science Foundation, the Gloria Corporation reinserted the core samples, causing the trees to warp around new growths of wood, and thus enabling it to hide its own security codes in the Gleichlaeufigkeit of the doctored landscape. In other words, whenever you look at a grove of trees off the side of the expressway, what you’re seeing is not a natural formation, but rather a manipulated structure designed to conceal a binary code. Any questions? Take a look at the pledge pins next time you crash a GC think tank—you’ll see what we mean.

Creative Bullshit

Put it on.” Scarlet pointed at the wet suit lying heaped near the closet. She and Olden were both naked; they’d already begun to make love, and he was loath to stop now. Eyes closed, he tried to ignore her, but she said, “I want to feel the rubber on my hands. I want to feel your ass like that.”

He slumped, then pulled out and crept across the room. The wet suit was a big mess, with the zipper jammed, the sleeves turned inside-out. She watched, laughing as he worked the suit over his legs.

“There’s a zipper here,” he said, trying to walk with the thing half on, the stretchy fabric binding his knees together.

“That’s okay.”

“No, but it’s in the way.”

“So leave it unzipped.”

He tried that, tried a few positions, then finally gave up and yanked on the zipper, pulling it up to his chin.

Disappointed, she stared at the ceiling. “Well, that’s no good.”

Olden slid back into bed. “How did we get naked to start with?” he asked, one arm curled around her waist.

Squinting, she traced a few points in the air, mapping it out. “I came in the door. And then you said ‘Hey.’ ”

“Oh, yeah. Right. I remember.”

She smiled, touching him. “With that hard-on, which looked so good at the time.”

He sat up and turned toward the door, already thinking about something else. She found a shirt—one of his—and put it on like a robe. Looking at her bare legs, Olden noticed a bruise above one knee.
I wonder about you
, he thought, then undid the snap of the suit, leaving it loose at the neck. “Here—check this out.” Rising, he went behind his desk.

Scarlet slowly turned her head; her eyes scanned the ceiling. “I wish you had a guitar,” she whispered.

At the computer, Olden typed a few words, then stopped. “A guitar?”

“Or anything. Even a banjo. But those are hard to play.”

“Mmm, I’m sure . . . okay, look.” He motioned to her, and she crossed the room, still thinking about guitars, wooden guitars with fat bodies, big holes you could stick your fist right through. A hollow rattle, the sound of something inside—a pick, or maybe a quarter. She dropped and sat in his lap. “This is it,” he told her.

Recognizing something in his voice—a cue, a rising cadence—she stared and said, “Oh, wow.”

The image on the screen changed. Olden pointed, finger tapping the glass. “That’s where the kid goes.”

“What kid?”

“The pictures of the kid. I showed you.” He grabbed a stack of Polaroids and handed them to her. Flipping through the pile, she picked out a favorite and held it up. “I like his hair,” she said. Then, touching his cheek: “I like your hair.”

He kissed her fingers. “Other than that, it’s all set. At least for a few weeks. Then we revise.”

“This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” She played with a strand of his hair, tucking it behind one ear. “I think that’s so great.”

He waited for a moment, ignoring the screen. A nasty impulse pressed against his throat, and he asked, “What’s so great about it?”

Her hands fluttered. Big lips hushed around a soft voice. “It’s great that you’re doing what you want to do.”

The feeling drained away. “Okay,” he muttered and went back to work. As he typed, neat words spooled across the screen. Scarlet whispered a few to herself, making it halfway through the first sentence. “Gee, you’re so smart,” she said.

He nudged her. “You’re not even reading it.”

She stopped, getting annoyed. “I read some of it. I’ll read it all. Look—”

“No, don’t read it.” He waved his hand in front of the screen, then held up one of the pictures. “See? That’s the idea. Without the kid, people might take it too seriously, which I don’t want them to do. I don’t want them to take it
seriously
per se, I just want them to recognize something in themselves—the fact that without the kid, they might actually
believe
this crap, the way they believe every other unsubstantiated bullshit theory that’s out there.”

She nodded, hearing the rhythm but nothing else. “Did you always know you wanted to do this?”

“You ask me that about everything, dear.”

“I do?”

“Yes. That’s your favorite question.”

She shrugged, hurt. “Oh, okay.” Her hands formed a box—the soft spot inside. “It’s just ’cause . . . I’m curious.”

“I know. I like it.” He kissed her hard on the cheek. “Look, why don’t you help me out?” He shuffled through some papers and uncovered a tattered notebook.

“What’s this for?”

“Write something about the kid. A little introduction. I’ll put it on the page.” He raised one knee, pushing her off. “Do it in longhand, and I’ll type it in. More creative that way.”

Scarlet skimmed the Polaroids. To her, the boy looked hard and breakable, like a porcelain doll. “Oh no, I—”

“Do it.” Olden blinked twice, staring at the screen. From behind, Scarlet studied his hands, his stiff back and shoulders. She wanted to do something nice for him. Stepping away, she made a little circuit, then came back. “Thank you,” she said, hugging his neck.

“For what?”

“For letting me do this. That’s so—”

“Hold on . . .” He tensed, striking the keys. She waited, but it soon became apparent that Olden had forgotten about her. Giving up, she found a place on the front step and began to draw. The broken cement felt cold against the backs of her legs. From where she sat, the driveway expanded, leaving a flat patch of dirt. The trees stood politely at a distance—orange leaves, a spangle of rust. The lake glittered as a breeze flapped the pages in her hands. She thought about the boy, the kid in the pictures. She liked the kids at MU, the ones who came to the weekend shows, troops herding backstage to meet the dancers. Yucky lunches in crumpled paper sacks. Sitting cross-legged on the lobby floor. Hands raised, one at a time. Me me me! Easy questions, shy faces. But Scarlet didn’t want a child of her own. Not yet. Maybe in a few years. One kid—a friend, somebody to hang out with. Girl or boy, but quiet, happy to stay at home. No “Yes, Mom, No, Mom.” A cool vibe. Laid-back parties, kids singing, playing puppets, getting high. Love everywhere. She imagined the boy, using the picture as a guide. She doodled a bit, wrote a few bad sentences, then started a new page. For ten minutes, she listened to the words, writing them down until finally the voice ran out. Closing the notebook, she walked inside, wiping her feet on an old rag. Olden did not look up, just nodded, eyes steady on the screen. Scarlet carefully placed the notebook on the desk and went back to bed. The sheets were cold, bunched to one side of the mattress. The keyboard made a loud sound, but pleasant, like rain. She closed her eyes and pressed her stomach—hands flat, fingers spread—and imagined someone inside, a proper little gent pacing the walls of her stomach, waiting to get out.

“Hey, you.” Olden smiled at the screen. He paused to wipe his face. “What’s up?”

She looked away, feeling patronized. “Maybe I’ll go home,” she said, remembering the long trip back, fifty miles to Crane City. She wanted to see someone else for a change. Too much time spent in the same dull room.

“I think you missed the last bus.” He stretched, cracking his back against the high part of his chair. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Starting a new screen, he sat for a while, the wet suit pinching his knees and elbows. An idea began to form, the vague beginnings of a story. Already, these Egg Code entries were getting harder to write. This was a tough job, coming up with creative bullshit. It had to be obvious without being too obvious; funny without being
just
that. Olden didn’t regard himself a harmless revolutionary. The opposition certainly wasn’t harmless; the men who worked for the Gloria Corporation were dangerous for the simple reason that most Americans would never think of them that way.
Terrorists
were dangerous, sure—assassins, dictators. But not bureaucrats; not the brilliant demigods who owned and operated the Information Superhighway. After so many years of good living, the American public had grown comfortable with the idea that democracy—democracy and the responsibilities that came with it—was expendable. As peasants once bought the lie of religion, Americans now bought the lie of information, the illusion that because the Internet allowed for a certain “interactivity,” it somehow meant the network was an extension of the consumer himself, reflecting his choices and personality, and therefore all other freedoms—the freedom to
work
, for God’s sake, to take control of one’s life—all those privileges that once had been unique to the United States no longer mattered, since now you could shop and chat and do all this
neat shit
online. The whole thing made Olden want to vomit. Slowly at first, he began to type:

“
The Story of the Man Who Melted into His Wetsuit
.”

He stared at the title, then made a quick outline in his head. “
A true
tale. Our first story comes from Northern California, where a windsurfer
and part-time accountant named Billye Daye was discovered roaming the
beaches of Crescent City early one morning by a pair of naturalists. Mr.
Daye, 35, suffers from a rare skin disorder. Researchers from UC Berkeley
have been studying the disease since the late 1950s. Dr. Wayne Teal comments: ‘Certain skin types are more sensitive to rapid changes in atmospheric conditions than others. In instances of high heat and humidity, the
skin produces an acidic secretion—called Polymicroniphate—that may
react in hazardous ways to other substances. In Mr. Daye’s case, a trace
amount of Polymicroniphate produced just enough thermal energy to
cause the suit to bond with his epidermis. Surfers and divers should take
caution when approaching the water, and they should always observe all
dietary guidelines appropriate to persons leading an active lifestyle.’
”

He saved the page, then entered Scarlet’s little blurb into a new column, scanning for mistakes. “All done,” he announced. Hearing nothing, he asked, “Scarlet?”

“Still here.”

He smiled and crossed the room. Lying sideways, she moved her legs, giving up a corner of the mattress. “Are you bored?”

“No.” She sighed, her voice curling at the end.

He touched her arm, reaching inside the shirtsleeve. “No more work today.”

“I don’t mind. I like it when you work.”

“It’s not boring?”

“No, Olden, it’s not boring.” She moved away and heaved her gym bag onto the bed. “Let’s have a cigarette.” Digging through the bag, she found a pouch with some rolling papers and a lump of shredded tobacco.

They stepped outside, Olden with his wetsuit slit down to the navel. She heaped the tobacco as he shished the papers between two fingers; one piece spread, and he pulled it out. “I’ll do this part,” he said. “You do the rest.”

Together, they assembled their little cigarette, then smoked it on the step, three good puffs before the hot part steamed and went out. Olden coughed and thumped his chest. “Whoa. It tastes like fiberglass.”

Scarlet dropped the butt onto the ground. Flecks of tobacco sifted away, streaming into the wind. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “Where are the deer?” she asked.

He pointed at the ridge, the high road. “It’s October. They’re usually up a ways.”

She nodded, playing with his zipper. “I wish that animals could talk. That would be so cool.”

Olden stood and walked away; what sounded charming to him a few weeks ago now just seemed stupid and naive. Past the drive, he turned to look at his house, the trees bending overhead. He held his hands behind his back and pressed, rubbing away the strain of the past few months. A huge sigh escaped, then turned into a laugh, a loud bit from some dumb song, just the melody with the words changed to la-las.

Scarlet waved across the lot. “Why are you singing?”

Olden sagged, energy drained. “Because I’m incredibly tired.”

He walked back, and they both entered the tiny cabin, arms linked, her fingers on his zipper, tugging,
There baby, take it off.