Care hangs about my neck like a rusted anchor—defining my days, hijacking my dreams. I am an old man, most likely in my late-seventies or early-eighties. They didn’t want us Tinkers to be burdened by personal worries, which includes birthdays—not when we have the whole world to worry about. But I am burdened. As the last Tinker, I am burdened by the thought that I will be the last person to have an opinion.
When Carlton, who takes such care of me, comes in on the fateful morning and sees me lying rigid and cold, he will smile kindly and refer to the notebook in his tunic pocket that provides him with a decision tree for every eventuality. Dead Tinker? Call 0110 to report. Other caretakers will refer to their plastic coated spiral-bound notebooks as what to do when they receive this call. More calls will be made with the end result of me being moved from my lonely bed to the mausoleum in which I will lie in repose with my brother and sister Tinkers. The last instruction will be for Carlton to turn off the lights and we Tinkers will fade into obscurity in a world that forgot care.
It seemed like a good idea. Just 50 years after the invention of social media, the world had descended into a chaos of umbrage. Decency had been trampled under effrontery’s feet. All were vigilant for every possible sleight, assuming their rights were moments away from being expropriated. Arabs blamed Jews. Jews blamed Christians. Fights broke out between Republicans and Democrats in Congress and on Capitol Street. France and Germany took turns claiming and reclaiming Alsace Lorraine. Even the Swiss were pissed off. Africa grabbed an AK-47, jumped into the beds of dented pick-up trucks and took off down dusty roads to settle ancient grudges between tribes that no longer existed. Even the UN General Assembly was rife with fist fights, lobbed insults and small paper fires. Karl Nigron, the last Secretary General, broke his gavel slamming it against the podium; the head flew into the UN’s seal, dislodging Australia and it clattered to the ground to the delight of the New Zealand delegation.
Something had to be done. And that something was Ambivia. Ambivia had been developed to alleviate physical pain but was found to be ineffective for that purpose. What it lacked in analgesic quality, it more than made up in fostering ambivalence. I barely passed high school chemistry and always nodded off when Tinker Ted, who was a pharmacologist, tried to explain Ambivia’s properties. I believe it inhibited the limbic system, the part of our brain that is responsible for the basic emotions (fear, pleasure, anger) and drives (hunger, sex, dominance, care of offspring). All the things that caused the world to burn on a daily basis.
Like so many things, putting Ambivia in the drinking water started as an Internet rumor. A couple of tweets here, a Facebook page there and a suggestion from Iceland’s UN representative. Nobody took it seriously and soon Ambivia talk was displaced by news of another domestic mass shooting or international bombing.
Somebody in Cleveland took it into his or her hands to purchase a large quantity of Ambivia and smuggled it into the Nottingham Water Treatment Plant, turning the eastern side of Cleveland and the south-eastern suburbs into an indifferent Shangri-La. While Ambivia remained in the the water supply, crime ended, automobile accidents fell precipitously as everyone waved each other on. Most high school basketball games ended in ties. People weren’t particularly happy, but they weren’t upset either. They woke, went to work, watched TV and, when it was time to go to bed, conjured transparent dreams. No one was suspicious, but they wouldn't be.
As usual, the experiment was ruined by a Case Western University sociologist who decided something was wrong as calm is not usually the byproduct of nihilism. Eventually, the source was traced to the water treatment plant, which was taken off line and scrubbed while bottled water was trucked in at great cost. Crime resumed its steady rise, car accidents reached new levels. There was a pervasive lament about the death of sportsmanship and the corrosive effects of tenure on college campuses. All remaining stocks of Ambivia were taken off the market and supposedly burned in the Nevada desert.
As civilization dragged its way towards Armageddon, world leaders convened a summit to deal with human misery. For years, the crazy bemoaned a conspiracy to enslave the world with all eyes fixed squarely on the United Nations. What most people did not know was that they were right, but the UN was a red herring.
The true world government met underneath a Quonset hut in the dusty outskirts of Springfield, Illinois. The sign on the door said “Tricounty Garages” and every window was hazed over with grime. There were several entrances to the compound in Springfield: in a janitor closet in the state capital, in a stall in the women’s room of a Qik-n-EZ gas station and, strangely enough, the front door of Tricounty Garages. Lifting up the calendar from 1987, revealed a small wooden panel that hid an impressive retinal scanning device.
It was a quick elevator down to the Plenary Hall where the world government met in emergency session. A certain amount of violence, internecine or international, was necessary to the commerce that made delegates outrageously wealthy. But at some point there was a zero sum gain when the violence, the prejudice and the general acts of cruelty that had defined humanity for millennia got out of hand. Clearly something had to be done and that something was the introduction of Ambivia into the world’s water supply.
Of course, there were the mandatory debates about free-will and cautionary tales about slippery slopes. The vote was far closer than anyone suspected, which was unfortunate as the executive committee had already given the green light to commence the mass dosing of Ambivia.
In an effort to assuage those who still had doubts, the delegates decided to segregate a number of people who would not be dosed with Ambivia. Clearly, it was wise to have someone not under the influence, who would be able to make decisions during the times when having an opinion was critical. By the time they got around to naming the group, the entire communications department had received their Ambivia and the best they could come up with was The Council.
The Council was made up of twelve men and women who represented politics, business, science, the arts and literature. I was selected due to my scholarly work on nihilism. We were locked in a safe room tended by Ambiviaed assistants who would make sure we were fed, watered and isolated. Though they were profoundly indifferent, the instructions for our care were clear and easy to follow. Before the heavy door came down, separating us from humanity, we were assured we would be released after a year when a new Council would be appointed. The door shut with a heavy shudder and we dubbed ourselves the Tinkers because we were the last people to give a damn.
We spent the first twelve months in academic debates that kept us occupied until the day when the door would lift and we would have the burden of care lifted from our shoulders and placed on the next cohort of Tinkers.
The day never came. The door refused to budge, despite our desperate banging and incessant intercom button pushing. We could see the face of our keepers who blinked incomprehensibly on the other side of the airlock as we tried to explain that something had gone wrong. We spent the next year angrily debating what happened, accusing each other of being somehow to blame. The business people were blamed for cutting corners. We humanities people fostered a culture of laxness. As we had no way to prove the rectitude of our position, we went to bed snug and smug in our convictions.
After all these years, placing tinker and tinker into the airlock, I still try to figure what went wrong. Perhaps the delegates didn’t realize they would be too lackadaisical to pick the next group of Tinkers. Maybe they had been surreptitiously double dosed by terrorists. Or maybe the plan all along was never to release us, making us opinionated sacrificial lambs. I can’t help but feel that I am being punished for my role in the Cleveland incident. After all, who asked me? I toss and turn in my early morning bed, unsuccessfully trying not to feel like the butt of a cosmic joke. Whatever happened beyond the doors forever condemned the world to be a wonderland of indifference and made it my job, my fate, my dubious honor to be the last person to care.