A Short Story About Productivity.
The pink pill on the desk probably has a long and complicated name, but the brochure simply called it ‘Crunch.’ Stanley thinks it sounds like a breakfast cereal. He imagines that if he were to bite down on the capsule it would taste bitter.
Still, if even half of what the brochure promises turns out to be true, it’ll be worth it.
The doctor who performed Stanley’s physical exam used all kinds of jargon. Ludovican conditioning. Circiaidian rhythm inhibition. Stanley doesn’t understand a word, but he definitely gets the upshot: hijacking his brain to feel fully rested, 24 hours a day. No need to waste a third of his working life sleeping.
Across the table, the woman from Lotus Pharmaceuticals — Judith, according to her nametag — gives him a smile that somehow has too many teeth.
“Congratulations, Mr Hanover,” she says, leafing through a file with his name on it. “You’re a perfect candidate for the Crunch trial.” Stanley can’t help breathing a sigh of relief as his shoulders drop. “However.” she continues, and his shoulders shoot back up. “Before we administer your first dose, I’m legally required to ask a few questions. Boilerplate stuff, OK?” Judith’s smile somehow gains a few molars. “Can you please confirm that you’re taking part in this trial of your own free will?”
Stanley hesitates. True, nobody’s holding a gun to his head. But is it still his own free will if he’s here as a last resort? His manager spelled it out in his last performance review: get his trade numbers up, or pack his bags. “Show me you have the hustle to cut it here,” she told him, “or I’ll find someone who does.“
He notices Judith watching him, so he quickly nods. “That’s right.”
“Excellent. And have you been made fully aware of the potential side effects?”
A few phrases bubble up in Stanley’s memory.
Uncontrollable mood swings.
Multiple organ failure.
Short- or long-term memory loss.
Then he remembers the other, unstated side effect: inflammation of the bank account. Enough to take a sizeable chunk out of his student loans.
Stanley gives a smile of his own. “No pain, no gain.”
Judith nods approvingly. “Very true, Mr Hanover. Now, one final thing: we ask all of our volunteers to nominate a medical proxy, in case of any unforeseen issues, but you left that section blank.”
Stanley gives a shrug. “I don’t have any family. I’m an only child, and my parents died when I was small.”
“No spouse? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”
“I’m focused on my career right now. Plenty of time to find someone to settle down with later.”
Judith makes a note. “Youth is wasted on the young,” she says, almost too quietly for him to hear, and Stanley realises that underneath the blonde hair and the impossibly wide smile, Judith is old enough to be his mother. “Not to worry. We can assign someone to act as your proxy for the duration of the trial.” She sets down her clipboard. “In that case, I just need you to sign your NDA.”
She slides a large stack of papers across the table and holds out a pen. Stanley takes it, unable to stop staring at the pill. He hasn’t even had his first taste, but already he’s jonesing. He races through the forms, his signature less legible with every page. He scrawls his initials on the final dotted line, then snatches up the pill and swallows it dry. The capsule lodges in his throat. Judith watches silently as he dives across the table to grab a bottle of water. Eventually the pill tumbles into his stomach, leaving a surprisingly sweet aftertaste. As he smacks his lips, Judith’s smile stretches to breaking point.
“Thank you, Mr Hanover. We’ll see you back here in a week to discuss your progress and administer your next dose.”
Stanley shakes her hand and leaves. He can feel the tablet sitting in the base of his stomach as he waits for the elevator, but he allows himself a satisfied smile when the doors close. By the time he reaches the ground floor he feels like it’s dissolved. He steps out into the spring sunshine grinning from ear to ear. It’s a five-minute walk back to his office, but by the end he’s practically skipping.
The last thing Stanley thinks as he enters the lobby of Irving Capital, before his mind goes pink and the world fades away, is that he can finally finish that report he’s been working on for the Van Winkle account.
***
The first thing Stanley’s unconscious mind registers is a beeping sound. Then he smells the tang of disinfectant, and feels sunlight on his face. He slowly opens his eyes. He’s lying on a bed under soft white sheets. Sunlight streams in through a window, filtered through autumn leaves. At first Stanley thinks he’s in a hotel room. Then his eye catches the IV drip by his bedside. A hospital, then. He must have had a bad reaction to that first dose. He looks across the room and sees another face staring at him blankly: an old man with gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes.
The IV in Stanley’s hand itches. As he scratches it absently, his eye catches a flicker of movement across the room; the old man is scratching his hand as well.
Stanley stops. The old man stops, too.
The beeping of the heart monitor grows rapid.
Stanley slowly lifts his shaking hands to his eyes. A sea of wrinkles and veins run across them. He flexes his fingers, and the swollen arthritic knuckles crunch in protest. He looks back at the old man’s face, and sees his own eyes staring out at him. A sob lodges in his throat and he chokes on it.
Outside the window, only a handful of frail yellow leaves still cling to the tree’s branches.
I wrote this story last month for a flash fiction competition whose theme was “The Cult of Productivity. It didn’t get chosen, but I enjoyed writing it and was very pleased with how it turned out, so I decided to share it here instead of letting it languish in my proverbial trunk.
Phil W. Bayles 
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