PUBLIC HEALTH INITIATIVES

THE YEAR 2084 — Citizens Must Report Their Bowel Productivity to the State

In the year 2084, citizens are legally required to report bowel productivity to the Ministry of Sanitation

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

A Note To Whom It May Concern: This is a tentative thought experiment that runs round and round, an inchoate specimen in my mind. It follows a different path to the experiment that I had begun years before, and had published with some urgency in my book “Big Poop”. Yes I have found this train of thought runs contrary to my previous judgement. Perhaps I was wrong about the direction society was veering in my years of humble scholarship dedicated to this topic.

In this thought experiment, the Ministry has determined that happiness and bowel regularity are statistically identical. It speaks less of complete eradication but more of an increasingly tight pincer closing in on society, a society where one cannot veer from the middle path. This is merely the beginning of the journey. I offer it not as a finished work, but as a provocation. If others should find themselves inspired by the experiment, and in turn inspire me, then perhaps together we may yet reach the finishing line. Here we are:

The morning siren awoke the boys at precisely 06:00 AM. They exited the house bleary eyed, indignant but compliant in the way young children are when they sense an impending emergency.

They stumbled along, following citizens emerging from their buildings and starting to form orderly queues outside the Ministry of Sanitation, not a word spoken. Gilda, their mother, haggard from scrubbing the house and readying them, guarded her boys as she waited. Her husband had trailed to the front, and they had almost lost him.

It was a known fact among everyday men that in Sector 8, some had referred to the Daily Output Assessment of young Truman as “a bit excessive.” And since then, no one had seen him. His mother had been a wreck.

The electronic display presently flickered to life. The crowd which had been awash with anticipation and fervor, was now silent.

NATIONAL PRODUCTIVITY IS NATIONAL PURITY

Every gaze was fixated, and the applause came in waves.

A second slogan flashed across the screen.

EVERY STOOL A SERVICE TO THE STATE

The applause became raucous, unbearable for the ear.

Gerald had somehow wandered to the fore of the line, which he now would regret. He silently adjusted his government-issued Fibre Compliance Armband, a black as ink leather specimen. At its centre sat the small circular display beneath a thick pane of glass displaying a sickly yellow. Presently, he stepped forward.

The Inspector was already waiting; his uniform was immaculate, consisting of a stiff grey drill cloth, atop of which, reinforced with a strip of black cloth and adorned with lustrous ribbon, sat a single blue broach bearing insignia. Gold braid traced the cuffs and shoulders and brass buttons lined his front, as well as one on either cuff. A broad leather belt encircled the waist, polished to a fault, and secured by a heavy brass buckle.

“Name?” he cried.

“Gerald P. Henderson.”

“Occupation?”

“Assistant Deputy Assistant Regional Toilet-Cleaning Coordinator.”

The Inspector did not betray any sort of emotion.

“Daily Output?”

Gerald felt his voice quiver in spite of himself. “One.”

The crowd gasped. Gerald felt it shudder through his personage.

Gilda looked around, stricken.

One. Only one. Oh Lord, what calamity had befallen him this day!

The Inspector slowly wrote something on the clipboard.

“The National Average is 2.7.”

Gerald shivered.

“The Five Year Plan clearly established the importance of increased productivity. And now, the Ministry has concerns.”

Gerald thought it better not to speak. He was sweating, shaking. He did not trust himself.

The Inspector looked directly into Gerald’s eyes.

“Have you considered additional prunes?”

Gerald could not listen more; he thought back to his home. His beautiful little home, lined with chestnut treas and warm light spilling on the steps of the little patio, the house itself a modest narrow brick building. His living room was a large airy space. Days gone by he would sit on his chair with his book as a lamp cast a warm amber glow over the room each evening. He felt himself return to the cold hard surroundings, the crowd looking at him hard-eyed, pitiless.

The Ministry always started with prunes, and then came the wretched hydration seminars, through which he would have to pour buckets of water down his aching throat. After thus, was fibre rehabilitation. Then the documentaries.

The Inspector made another note.

“Report to Chamber 4.”

Gerald closed his eyes. He could not move. He imagined himself being led through the dark halls of the Ministry, watching clanking iron doors that had rusted despite its inhabitants, cold-eyed clerks watching, watching behind their low-rise desks.

The loudspeaker crackled.

ATTENTION CITIZENS

The room fell silent. A voice filled the hall, booming, authoritative.

It informed the crowed that good old General Portsmouth had achieved a personal best of 3 kilograms. To this, the crowd erupted with joy.

Meanwhile, Gerald quietly wondered whether civilization had perhaps taken a wrong turn somewhere.

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