Mr. Blue
Mr. Blue had always been Mr. Blue. At least for as long as he could remember. He did not remember any other life. Not his arrival on the train, nor his stop at the Melanin Alteration Room, nor the pneumatic elevator ride up. He did not remember the days in the isolation room as his dosage of Happy and Sad pills was perfected, nor the slight discomfort that had occurred. But as soon as his dosage was correct and the contentment process began — none of it mattered any more.
And although he didn’t exactly remember marrying Mrs. Blue, it seemed she was as natural a part of his life as anything. Like a pill on the tip of his tongue. As good a match as any.
The wonderful thing about living on the forty-first floor of building #812 was that every possible biological desire was fulfilled and every urge was accommodated. For one thing, everywhere the eye could see was an orgasm of color. The eye couldn’t help but be pleased. There were enough visual stimuli to satiate an army. All the citizens of the forty-first floor were free to come and go from their rooms as they pleased. They could gather in the commons room. Gather in each other’s rooms. In the dining area. The hallways. The rumpus room. They could gather in the view room and watch the ColorMaster on the television all day long if they so chose.
They could eat when they were hungry. Take Happy pills when sad. Sad pills when the happiness became too much to bear. They could have sex whenever and wherever they felt like it; there always seemed to be someone ready and willing to perform the act. Strategically placed vibrating phalluses were abundant for the women, and masturbation tubes were always ready for the males. It didn’t matter whom it was done with, either, all jealousies having been genetically removed.
What more could a person want?
Nick Johnson was a Controller who lived on the sixth floor of building #812. He was assigned eight Melanin Enhanced citizens. He distributed the Happy and Sad pills via pneumatic tubes and measured the amount of sperm collected and distilled in the masturbation tubes. His main job was to watch his charges on monitors and make sure they were content at all times.
Contentment was the number one priority of a Controller.
The problem with Nick Johnson — being a Controller and not being as constantly content as the Melanin Enhanced — was that he had retained the traces of a sense of humor. What an embarrassment! In the Controller Recruitment Act of 2005, potential Controllers were courted with the promises of free will. Free this, free that… Although it sounded good at the time, the Controllers often looked upon their charges with a certain envy. A certain longing.
Of course, the Controller Recruiting Act of 2005 was abridged in 2006, 2007, and 2008, each abridgment altering the free will sections, one of the abridgments being the removal of a sense of humor. And since the process of humor removal had yet to be perfected, there were those Controllers who still retained trace amounts.
Nick Johnson tried his best not to let it show. But there were times when he could not help himself. Changing the dosage of Happiness in Mr. Blues’ Happy pills was one of those times. When Nate Johnson giggled after typing the change into his computer terminal, he pretended it was just a hiccup when the Controller next to him looked discreetly in his direction. He excused himself to get a glass of water.
On his show were puppets, singing animals, dancers, singers, comedians, sex performers — always ending each hour-long show with the words — often mouthed by the residents of the forty-first floor of building #812—
“
Of course the ending of one show always meant a new one would soon start. The new one would begin with the ColorMaster singing the words — also mouthed by the residents of the forty-first floor—
“
Although many of the residents ate food, swallowed pills, or sexually interacted in the commons, most of their faces were turned to the five-meter square screens placed throughout the floor. Unless one decided to put on Quietgear, it was impossible not to hear the soothing sounds of the ColorMaster’s hour-long shows.
Mr. Blue wasn’t quite sure what was happening to him. He ate his favorite dish (cheese pizza) watched hour after hour of
What a strange feeling. Not to be completely satisfied. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. He scratched his thigh, scratched his shoulders, his belly — yet there was still something not quite right.
He looked around the common room, hoping to find solace in the contented faces of all the other Colors. It was as if he was looking at them in a different light. What is happening to me? he wondered.
Every tile on the floor, every panel on the wall, every square on the ceiling was a different color. The Happy Pills were a different color each time he received one, as were the Sad Pills. But for the first time in his existence, he realized that — wait — the sheets on his bed were always white. Why is that? he wondered. And the tubes that protruded into his room, into every room, distributing the multi-colored pills — they were gray. All of them. In every room. Gray. Never green or orange or burgundy. Just gray, gray, gray.
Is that the way it’s supposed to be? It seemed rather unfair.
Mr. Blue began to notice other things as well. Inconsistencies and disconcerting patterns. For example, even on his favorite TV show, the ColorMaster’s desk was always brown. How strange, he thought. The ColorMaster, who was the very epitome of color-conscious thinking — had a brown desk. Not just on certain episodes, but on all of them. Did he favor the color brown?
Mr. Blue walked into the commons. The ColorMaster’s guest on this particular show was a talking horse, whose name was Mr. Ed. The horse was entirely white. Or black. Depending on which part of it you looked at.
“Won’t you be my friend?” the ColorMaster asked Mr. Ed. The horse said, “Of course. Of course.”
The show ended as it always did. Predictably. Comfortably. With a shot of the city, a shot of all the evenly spaced buildings, all evenly built and uniform, the same size, the same shape, and the same — color.
Hmmmm…thought Mr. Blue. All the buildings are an off-white. He looked across the room at Mr. and Mrs. Off-White. They held hands while performing an acrobatic sexual act. Do they get some kind of special treatment? Mr. Blue wondered.
“
All of the residents, that is, except Mr. Blue.
Nick Johnson got another glass of water after his second bout of ‘hiccups’ that day. He had been watching Mr. Blue on the video monitor, and had noticed the strange look on his face. He altered the dosage a bit more, looking to his left and right to make sure no one was watching.
But there is always someone watching, someone monitoring every move everyone makes, he thought. He hunched over his screen, his uncontrolled smirk reflected in the monochrome monitor, like an invitation to intercede.
For the first time in his life, Mr. Blue noticed that there was an almost invisible outline on one of the walls of the cafe. The cafe walls consisted of squares of every color Mr. Blue had ever laid eyes on. Yet there was this faint outline. An outline of indistinct, musty — what was it? Gray? Black? An outline in the form of a rectangle, the same shape as the portals between each and every room.
He walked over to it. Touched it. Ran his fingers along the outline and felt an emptiness in the line. It wasn’t
