“Birth certificate, please!”
“Huh? What?” the suspect replied.
He had the beginnings of crow’s feet.
Reasonable suspicion.
“You know what I mean. Your birth certificate or I’m locking you up.” I pushed him face-first against the cinder block wall, jerked his hands behind his balding head and secured his wrists with plastic restraints.
“You’re hurting me,” he yelped.
“Not as much as I will if you don’t cough up your papers.”
“Who the hell goes walking around with his birth certificate?”
“Everybody, since the edict. You know that.”
“I heard. But I thought it was bullshit.”
“Please. There’ve been warnings for the past two weeks since your bankrupt little town sold itself as a test case. Billboards. Radio and TV spots. Op-eds. Your city fathers signed a contract on the dotted line with the billionaire that I work for.”
“Mr. App? He’s only sixteen-f*****g years old. I don’t give a damn what he wants.”
“He owns this town. You’re on private property. His property.”
“Okay. Okay. I know. But I didn’t give my consent. Asking me to carry around my birth certificate is stupid. And a gross invasion of privacy.”
“Then you shouldn’t have stayed when Mr. App seized control.”
I nodded to my assistants, one a certified eighteen-year-old, the other a confirmed fifteen, with massive biceps that belied his tender age. They forced the uncooperative suspect to the ground. I dug my knee into the small of his back as the trainees executed a textbook body search. They had absorbed their training well.
“Got it,” Fifteen said, raising a humid plastic baggie with a square of paper inside. “He taped it to his cottage cheese ass.”
“Cellulite. Another warning sign that’s he’s overage,” Eighteen chimed in. He wasn’t as bright or as strong as his younger team member, but he was down with the program.
“Make sure,” I advised. Maintaining a firm grip, I turned the suspect face up.
Fifteen opened the baggie. Scowling, he unfolded the stinking, damp document. “Bingo,” he said, raising a thumb. “Looks genuine. Has the official stamp.”
“What’s the bottom line?” I asked.
“Twenty six years, three months and seven days old. You’re busted, dude,” he said, waving the document in the confirmed elderly male’s face. While younger than his co-worker, he had a thuggish enthusiasm and a strong will to succeed. I could see him rising high in the organization by, say, the age of eighteen.
I grabbed the suspect by the lapels of his Members Only shirt. “Why the f**k didn’t you come clean in the first place? You could’ve saved yourself all this grief.” I slapped his cheek with a back of a hand. I wanted to show my assistants I was tough, that I could still kick ass at my relatively advanced age.
“I--I thought I’d pass,” he replied, shaking with fear. My girlfriend says I look like a high school senior.”
“With those crow’s feet? I had you spotted a mile away.”
“Can’t you cut me some slack? I’m only a little over the age line. I have money, if that’s what you want. I’ll show you where I keep it back home.”
“Law’s the law, dude. Over twenty-five and it’s the detention center for you. You’ve aged out. Take him away, boys.” That said, I tucked in the blouse of my Sherwood green uniform. Mr. App liked his troops neat and clean, to subvert the traditional notion that the young were degenerate slobs.
My decision, a reasonable, law-abiding decision, enraged Fifteen. “That’s it? Just take him away? He tried to bribe us just now. We should f***k him up. Teach him to respect his youngers.”
He reared back to perform a body slam. I shouldered him away.
“Again?” he fumed. “Every time we arrest one of these jerks, you hold me back. You’re getting soft. You’re getting—you’re getting—too old for this work. That’s it. What age are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-two,” I answered, restraining myself. Mr. App looked fondly upon Fifteen, seeing him as the ruthless wave of the future, the type of hooligan required to implement the program when it went live nationwide. If I beat him up now, even though I might need a length of two-by-four to seal the deal, I might wind up in hot water with the boss. “Take the Confirmed Elderly in and book him. That’s a direct order. We’ll talk later, okay?”
“We sure will. And it won’t end there. I’m taking this up the chain of command.”
“Be my guest,” I answered, feigning a lack of concern as he and Eighteen dragged the old man away. Inside, though, I was clutching. Fifteen had pull. There was no telling how he might twist my words, make it seem to Mr. App that I was no longer dedicated to the cause. That I was over the hill.
Fifteen and Eighteen took a left turn at next block, heading towards the complex of grain silos converted by Mr. App into internment camps for Confirmed Elderly over the age of twenty-five. It was there that Twenty-Six would be processed and incarcerated among a collection of elderly, raging from his age up to Gen X and Baby Boomers—the worst of the worst.
Yes, the Movement had come that far. This was the beta version of a society that had once been no more than a youthful dream. A society run by and for the young. Those of us who’d had it up to here with classic rock, Nirvana, Tony Hawk Pro Skater 5—the burdensome nostalgia culture that weighed upon us like solid stone, breaking our backs with the frivolous nonsense of dying generations that refused to get out of the way.
Suddenly spent, I slid down the cinder block wall, lit a Camel (my only concession to the 25+ world) and inhaled. The battle, while just, was exhausting me.
My head drooped, my eyelids teetered on the edge of closing. A power nap right now might refresh me for the struggle ahead. I no longer got a rush from kicking butt 24/7, as did Fifteen, who epitomized boundless energy.
Then the citywide P.A. system crackled to life. A powerful voice raised a familiar cry: “Assemble all ye who are vital and young!” and I felt refreshed and ready to carry on. It was Mr. App, the sixteen-year-old game changer whose master plan had made me drop everything—my job, my girlfriend, my parents, my student loans, to join the great cause.
Mr. App’s message had intoxicated me, an unemployed, overeducated young man simmering with thwarted ambition. His dispatches were simple, yet, to me, made perfect sense. By placing those over age twenty-five in internment camps, we could overcome the vexing problems facing callow mankind. His plan would:
*Reduce traffic gridlock. Fewer drivers equaled safer streets.
*Increase the stock of affordable housing. Empty homes would turn major cities into buyers’ markets overnight. Instead of squeezing into an 850 square foot apartment with six of your best friends, you could fit the same number in a seven-bedroom, 6,000 sq. ft. McMansion with room to spare—and money left over.
*Make for better salaries, quicker promotions. Incarcerating the elderly would eliminate the seniority system overnight. Can you say instant V.P.?
Mr. App’s texts had captured the imaginations of thousands, if not millions like me. However, as testimony to his infinite wisdom, Mr. App knew that implementation would be a bear. So, after taking a vow of silence, a special few of us had been selected to take part in this pilot project in a small town far from prying eyes.
To further bolster privacy, Mr. App had purchased the city, paid every local yokel $500 U.S. and told them they would be playing starring roles in the pilot episode of a revolutionary, “Survivor on steroids” reality show.
The surrounding five-square miles was patrolled by armed cops. Curious outsiders and relatives were allowed inside only after signing iron-clad nondisclosure agreements and surrendering any communications gear. They too, were paid, though a lesser amount, after a committee of long-term residents complained.
All complied, thrilled that this nowhere town and its dead-end inhabitants were on the pathway to Hollywood fame. Perhaps some of the glitter would rub off on them. Greed kept their lips sealed.
The sound of Mr. App’s mesmerizing baritone filled me with glee, as it had when I’d first heard him speak six months before. I buried my Camels (so I wouldn’t be caught in his presence with generational contraband) and sprinted as fast as I could towards the town square.
Others like me, youthful, in green uniforms, spilled from homes and alleyways, suspending raids for the more important task of heeding our master’s call. In short order, the streets were filled with hundreds of us, of all ages, as long as they didn’t exceed twenty-five. Seventeens, Eighteens, Twelves and Twenty-twos—ran, whooped and cried tears of joy in eager anticipation of Mr. App’s always inspiring words.
We formed a swirling, excited mass in the town square, battling each other for precious real estate near the stage.
A dispute broke out, Fifteen and his rough crew wading in, bringing order with truncheons. The resonant sound of skulls being thwacked punctuated the festive atmosphere. Foreheads bleeding profusely, the chastened revelers staggered back to their feet. Dedicated acolytes of Mr. App, nothing, not even traumatic brain injury, could deter them from hearing him speak.
And then…it happened! As if from out of nowhere—from heaven, from hell, Mr. App appeared on stage.
Hoping he’d notice me, I began the traditional welcoming cheer:
“Never trust anyone over twenty-five.”
“Never trust anyone over twenty-five.”
Soon, hundreds of us were chanting in unison, weeping tears of joy, straining forward, only to dash away when Fifteen and his merry band swung their truncheons to prevent us from storming the stage and kissing Mr. App’s bare, flower-bedecked feet.
He joined us in the chant, this pudgy young man more junior sumo wrestler than tech magnate. Barely 5’2”, Mr. App sported a mop of black hair, pearly white teeth and a deep, resonant voice that seemed to make the earth tremble beneath us. He didn’t need a mic to reach the far edges of the throng.
And then he addressed us directly, as if seized by a revelation, an epiphany, of earth-shaking import. “No more are we followers under the thumb of those whose sole merit is that they were born before us. We are taking the reins. From now on, the elder ones pull the plow.”
“Amen!” a female voice cried. She was quickly shushed, handcuffed and removed by Fifteen. Scattered applause followed, until those impolite few were also cuffed and dragged away by Fifteen’s ubiquitous team. Mr. App was not to be interrupted mid-thought.
He continued as if nothing had happened. “They said it couldn’t be done. This,” he said, indicating the crowd. “They believed you didn’t have the guts. That you would always be compliant daughters and sons.” He guffawed, baring his perfect and allegedly capped teeth. “Man oh man, were they wrong. Correct?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” we replied in unison, having been trained to respond in triplicate when invited to speak by Mr. App.
“Just like they were wrong when they said that an overweight Fourteen—me—couldn’t develop a billion-dollar app. Correct?”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
“And that a young punk—again me—couldn’t attract a consortium of private—very—private Wall Street investors to provide me with seed money to create an app that they didn’t understand. And never will, because I refuse to tell them what it is or what it does. Which is a bold stance on my part that has created a worldwide financial buzz. My app is now valued at over ten billion, of which two or three billion are mine.”
He smiled. “At least that’s what my mom says. Because she still keeps the books.”
Several audience members gasped. They were quickly muscled off the scene by Fifteen and crew.
“Just kidding,” Mr. App continued. “Mom’s forty-five and under house arrest. Along with the rest of the seniors in my extended family, including my cousin, a Thirty Three. Because I’m serious about this endeavor. So serious I changed my legal name to Mr. App. So serious that I lied to my elderly investors and told them that you, the young, loved the app, even though that’s impossible because I haven’t completed it yet. And probably never will because I’m already a billionaire, so why bother? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, you know what I mean?”
I started to chant “yes, yes, yes,” but thought the better of it when Fifteen strolled by, slapping his truncheon and giving me the fisheye.
“How can I help you?” I asked, maintaining a happy face while seething inside. I hated the guy. Insolent. Inexperienced. But the little snot had quickly climbed in the ranks. Why? Who did he know?
“Looked as if you were going to say something. You know that isn’t allowed when Mr. App is addressing us.”
“I was preparing to agree with him but stopped. Is it now a crime to flutter one’s lips? Please enlighten me if the rules have changed.”
Brandishing his truncheon, Fifteen took a giant step in my direction. His downy cheeks brushed against my stiff, expansive beard. “My, my, my. The old geezer has such a smart mouth. Think we should do something to shut it, boys?”
Before I could react, Fifteen was joined by a dozen other members of his thuggish gang. They ranged in age from Fifteens down to Tens. But even the youngest sported hardened faces and lean, bare arms. These were the most enthusiastic, most vicious foot soldiers of the coming revolution and they appeared to hang on Fifteen’s every word.
“Let me take care of him, boss,” a beefy Eleven asked, his voice breaking with deep emotion and budding puberty. “This Twenty-two is half my size and twice my age. I could handle him easily.”
Kneeling down, he began pounding the ground with his truncheon. His fellow warriors joined in, as if drumming their weapons helped prepare them for battle. I spun around, noticing for the first time that the town square had been infiltrated by massive numbers of the very young.
I unsheathed my steel baton, disbelieving that I was about to be hit by friendly fire.
“Attack!” Fifteen yelled.
His troops charged towards me, truncheons pointed out.
“Stop!” a cute female Eighteen screamed, inserting herself between me and Fifteen’s advancing goons. Spinning around, fierce with passion, she asked, “Have you all gone mad? We’re supposed to be fighting the elderly, not ourselves.” She flourished a homemade oaken sword, its blade painted the colors of deadly nightshade. “Anyone who wants to fight will have to get through me first.” She turned my way. “Including you.”
Sighing, I did.
“And you. Stand down,” she declared, addressing Fifteen. With great reluctance, he nodded to his hordes, now numbering fifty. They backed away.
Mr. App’s booming voice brought us all to our senses. “Boys and girls, boys and girls,” he said in an admonishing, fatherly tone. “I appreciate high spirits, but these nonsensical domestic disputes need to end. Twenty-twos fighting Twenty-fours, Fifteens fighting Twenty-twos. We’re supposed to be one big family under one big tent. This movement was meant to pit the young against the elderly, not the young against the young. Come up here, my quarrelsome children. Come on the stage,” he said.
“Is he talking to us?” the pretty Eighteen asked.
“Think so.”
“I can’t believe it. I’ve never been close to him before. Would you take my hand? I’m a bundle of nerves.”
“Uh…sure,” I answered, suddenly nervous myself. Other than to bark orders, I hadn’t talked to a girl since the Movement began, let alone held a hand as warm and pleasurable as pretty Eighteen’s.
As if feeling the same, she smiled at me and quickly looked away. “Can I ask you a question if you promise not to tell?”
“Sure.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Ethan,” I said, even though doing so could get us locked up.
“Matilda,” she responded, smiling, making sure to keep her eyes on the ground. I knew then and there that I would never forget Matilda, even though, after tonight, I might never see her again. There was a war to be fought. Who knew where we would be assigned?
Our group, now numbering around five dozen Fifteens, Matilda and me, filed onto the wide stage. Reluctantly, I released her hand.
Pomp and Circumstance, a 20th century composition the production crew had mistakenly let slip past, boomed over the P.A. The sun was setting and torches had been lit. The dramatic, flickering glow transformed Mr. App into a mystical deity, notwithstanding his ample girth and virulent acne. It was as if he had descended from a far better place than planet Earth, with its soul-killing seniority systems and apprenticeships.
The music stopped abruptly.
Mr. App folded his arms. Face impassive, he surveyed the multitudes. A full minute passed. He cleared his throat. Fell silent again, watching us, weighing our merits. Then, anticipation at a fever pitch, he deigned to speak. “I’ve been thinking as the combatants came on stage,” Mr. App intoned, chin in his hand. “I have good news. And bad news.”
All those assembled moaned, even me. I glanced sideways at Matilda. Her mouth remained closed.
“Bad news first.” Mr. App sobbed. Tense seconds passed. Then, blubbering, shedding tears, struggling to get words out, he said, “The policy of never trusting anyone over twenty-five has failed.”
He paused, then added, drawing out every word, “It—doesn’t—go—far—enough.”
Fifteen applauded. His thugs followed suit.
“Recent events have shown dissension within the youth cohort. The old-young,” he nodded at me, “are getting in the way of the overzealous-young.” He indicated Fifteen. “And when it comes to fulfilling our noble cause, a little overzealousness never hurt, right?”
“Right!” Fifteen and crew bellowed. They began pounding the stage with their truncheons. Countless overzealous-young pressed against the crowd barriers, desperate to join in. A stage hand gave Fifteen an overloaded black bag. He emptied it of complimentary truncheons that he tossed into frothing crowd. The din became something only Mr. App’s voice could overcome.
“Therefore,” he concluded, “in order to ensure we achieve our noble goal I am, at this very moment, changing our slogan to Never Trust Anyone Over Twenty.
“All of those who have just received truncheons begin arresting anyone above that age.” With that, the torches were doused and Mr. App strutted off the darkened stage.
Imagine an army of Fifteen and Under anarchists trying to initiate a new youth order and you have only any inkling of the madness that unfolded that night.
I, of course, was arrested, by Fifteen no less, for the crime of aging out. Adding to the insult, Matilda was forced by him to tighten the cuffs. She was then stripped of her sword, issued a truncheon and ushered off the stage to make arrests until there were no more to be made.
She uttered but one parting word, and that, I swear, was “Ethan.” I replied, enthusiastically, whole-heartedly, “Matilda,” after which I was severely beaten. I can only hope that she did not experience the same.
Three weeks later:
I’m still recovering from my wounds. I stand all day and curl up at night in the two feet by three feet space on the concrete floor inside the wire cage I share with one hundred and ten other newly-minted old men.
The stress is overwhelming. It’s shameful to admit this, but I’ve started to hope the Forty-seven on the floor to my right dies because his space—and I measured it, is an expansive 3’X4’. As they were carting away his body, I’d seize it as my own.
Even more crushing, I have no idea where Matilda is or if she even remembers me. While we had only one brief meeting, I’ve come to love her dearly. The thought that I might one day hold her hand again keeps me from smashing my cranium against the unforgiving floor.
Four weeks later:
I woke up to feel a new detainee pressed against me, shivering under a tiny space blanket. Irritated that the new fish had invaded my precious privacy, I gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs. Grumbling, he rolled over to face me.
My god! It was Mr. App, stripped to his underwear. His eyes were bloodshot. He was covered with scrapes and bruises.
“What the f**k are you doing here?” I said, scrambling away, banging into another neighbor, who shoved me back into my own space.
“I aged out,” Mr, App said, cringing as if I was going to hurt him again.
“You’re sixteen!”
“Fifteen and his crew seized power in a palace coup. They changed the Movement slogan to never trust anyone over fifteen. Said old folks like me had screwed everything up. They even had my overseas bank accounts transferred over to them. I’m broke.”
He began to cry. “Twenty-six percent of the world’s population is under fifteen. And kids at that stage of development live only for today. They lack planning skills. They’ll never overthrow the system because they don’t even care. Give them a skateboard and they’re happy as clams. They’re skate-f**k-boarding nihilists, I tell you.”
“Sounds like me when I was that age,” I replied.
“Because of them, everything I’ve worked for is going down the tubes.”
“And you sound like my dad,” I said, bitterly amused. Mr. App’s youth movement was eating its own tail. Who’d seize power when Fifteen aged out? The six-year-olds? The Prince George generation? I joined Mr. App in crying. The futility of it all!
But what of Matilda? Where was she now that she, too, was of an unacceptable age?
“Incarcerated like us, in the women’s sector,” Mr. App said.
Enraged, I stood up. Matilda’s personality was too big to be cooped up in a 2’X3’ space. Inevitably, she’d lash out at her immature guards, and that would be the end of her.
Mr. App pulled me back down. “Hold on. She’s okay. Fifteen is protecting her.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Fifteen has a fatal flaw for a man in his position. He has a thing for older women. And Matilda’s exploiting that flaw to the hilt. Which reminds me that she wanted me to give you this.” He extracted a note from his underwear.
I read it with barely restrained joy:
Dearest Ethan:
My hand aches for your warm touch.
But never fear.
We shall be together soon, if I have my way.
More than that I cannot say.
Age is but a number.
Yours forevermore,
Matlida aka Pretty Eighteen
Matilda and I have been communicating through the prison grapevine since then. I’ve even seen her from a distance once. She was, of course, as beautiful as ever.
It is because of Matilda and her expedient relationship with Fifteen that this message has found its way to you.
For the time being, the Age War is contained within this secret, small community. But one day the fight will spread into society at large.
The social order you take for granted.
It’s a nightmare scenario that may be happening already, for all I know.
I apologize for helping this twisted youth movement to metastasize.
That said, I hope and pray you heed my final words of advice:
The next time you cross paths with a Fifteen, be afraid. Be very afraid. They might not be as innocent as they look.
And for god’s sake, don’t turn your back on a Fifteen. The next thing you feel may be a truncheon crashing down upon your skull.
After which, you’ll wake up in here. Alongside me and Mr. App.
We’ve become friends—brothers in old age—and we’ll respect your personal space.
Our friend in old age.
By: Anonymous
As told to:
Doc Paranormal
Adjunct Professor without Portfolio
Edgar Allan Poe Community College
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