Free Generation A by Douglas Coupland Page A

man-high helix of razor wire. I hopped out of the truck and walked up to them, but before a word came out of my mouth, the crowd spotted me—I felt like Kurt Cobain, returned from the dead. The guards panicked and were unable to quickly open the razor wire gate, and so I, Zack, got my first taste of fame. I liked it.
    A woman old enough to be my mother asked me to sign an envelope for her. My first autograph! So I did, and then she asked if I could lick the envelope shut. A weird request, but I did, and she ran away happy, but others were visibly pissed off. I asked a comely young lady what I’d done wrong, and she said, “She wanted your DNA, bozo—and so do I!” My mind was blossoming with ideas on how to provide her with a sample when the guards finally cut the razor wire and yanked me inside—but only me, no DNA enthusiasts.
    The first thing I noticed was that my aging wood barn had been disassembled and the planks stacked like cordwood. Numbers had been spray-painted on their edges, meaning I’m not sure what. It reminded me of the X’s spray-painted onto New Orleans Katrina houses.
    My house itself was unlocked, and every item inside had been arranged into rows and piles, and numbered with Sharpies. Many of the items were in plastic zip-lock bags—even an ancient pizza flyer I remembered throwing out the morning of the sting. Fucking hell—to put everything back in place was a task that seemed beyond me. Having said that, my place had never looked so neat and clean.
    I sat down on a chair wrapped in a thick, clear plastic condom. I was hungry. Would there be food in the cupboard? I found forty-eight of those meals-in-a-can things senior citizens love. Oh joy . I decided that the first thing I’d do as a free citizen would be to go to the bank, take out some money, go find an apple and pay whatever they asked for it. I wanted my teeth to make something go crunch .
    Drinking a chocolate Boost, I walked into the guest room (in truth, the room in which I kept my barbells and dead elliptical training machine) and saw a pile of U.S. Postal Service bags of mail. Holy fuck! I went to one of them and pulled out a letter at random. It was from a grandmother in Michigan who had written a poem about bees. She’d enclosed a memory stick of the poem set to music. I quickly learned that fan mail was incredibly fun and yet incredibly boring at the same time.
    I was halfway through my third Boost and my tenth letter when my cellphone rang. I’d forgotten I even owned one. The ring tone was “Africa” by Toto: Uncle Jay.
    “Numbnuts, you were supposed to be home tomorrow , not today.”
    “I don’t even know what day today is.”
    “It’s Saturday.”
    “Who told you I was supposed to be home tomorrow?”
    “The woman from the Centers for Disease Control.”
    Note the absence of a greeting. Uncle Jay is warmth personified.
    “I’m fine, Uncle Jay. How are you?”
    “Smartass.”
    I asked, “So what happens now?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “What am I supposed to do now? Hang out all day with my Wii?” Not farming—that’s for sure. A letter from Monsanto Corn had informed me that there were still unrepentant gene traces on the property.
    “How about growing something other than corn?”
    “Corn still runs the state. You know that’s not going to happen.”
    “You’ve got a point,” Jay said. “It seems to me that you now have the best thing and the worst thing in the world at the very same time.”
    “What would that be?”
    “Too much free time.”
    “I’ve just had a month of free time, and I never want any again.”
    On the table was a stack of Wellbutrin SR Post-it notes. As I stared at them, I realized how much I’d missed logos and brands.
    “You’re not contagious or anything, are you?”
    “Fuck off, Jay.”
    “Language.” Then he said to me, “If I see you on one TV talk show, or if you post anything weird on the Internet, or if I see any fame-whoring, you’re cut off. Fame is