Free Some Possible Solutions by Helen Phillips Page A

weeping, and gesticulating.
    â€œGertrude,” he cries. “Gertrude.”
    The hermaphrodite looks with bemused benevolence at this silly skinny man.
    â€œDearest,” he says.
    â€œExcuse me,” the hostess says. “We’re going to take a short break for commercials but we’ll be right back!”
    When we return to the show a couple of minutes later, the old guy has disappeared, and the Joined is saying something about serenity, her bare breasts hanging above her belly.
    *   *   *
    The President announces that the new planet will be called Htrae. We soon realize how shortsighted his decision is when we hear the newscasters trying to pronounce it. In the past, this would have amused us, but a new anxiety has settled over our living room.
    The United Nations, eager to preside over a world of contented citizens and to boost the lagging SpaceBus industry, launches a program to match every person on Earth with his/her corresponding being on Htrae. The head of the nascent agency swears that through his own blood, sweat, and tears he’ll make sure everyone becomes Joined. Matches are based on six traits identified and tested by a fast-working group of doctors: (1) gender, (2) height, (3) birth date, (4) blood type, (5) shape of skull, (6) shape of intestines. If these six indicators are in place, the match is guaranteed. A team is sent to Htrae to collect statistics, which are then input into a vast computerized database. With increasing frequency, people from Earth travel to Htrae and become Joined. “Twe am,” they all say. On Earth, we celebrate for them.
    So this means if they found a female on Htrae who was five feet ten inches tall, who was born on October 11 twenty-four years ago, who had Z+ blood, who had a little dimple in the skull above her ear, who had God knows what kind of intestines, then—
    If they found a male on Htrae who was five feet five inches tall, who was born on February 9 twenty-three years ago, who had Y- blood, who had no irregularities in the skull, who—
    â€œYes,” we say. “Then.”
    So we take our paperwork in. We do what we’re told. We, too, have been lonely and disappointed. We, like everyone, wish for something slightly different and better. Like everyone, we hope. We wait.
    *   *   *
    And one day we get home from work to discover a single official letter in the mailbox. A match has been indisputably located! The letter informs us that the matched citizen is invited to catch a SpaceBus to Htrae tomorrow.
    We gaze around the apartment, at our shabby couch and the small pile of unwashed dishes, at the seahorse lamp with the green shade and the bedspread that looks like it was stolen from a second-rate motel. One of us will be here, still watching the television, still wrapped in the dark blue blanket, still finding gingersnap crumbs between the cushions.
    We begin to pack the suitcase. We disagree about what should go in. The only thing we can agree on is that not much will be needed. Once you’re Joined, nothing matters anymore, or so it seems. You wouldn’t be able to fit into your old shirts and pants, obviously, and the Joined prefer nudity even when given the option of the fine new clothing being designed for their bodies. Their skin always looks radiant, so what good will cocoa butter cream do you? Halfway through, we resolve to forget about toothbrushes, shampoo, socks, books.
    Tonight, since it’s our last night, we decide to leave the living room and go walking along the river. Sure, there’s garbage and empty beer bottles down there, but with a lifetime of rapture ahead, it’s easy not to be bothered by such things. We carry the official letter with us.
    We stop and sit on a cement barrier where the bank of the river should be. The moon is yellow and slender. We try to spot Htrae, but our eyes aren’t good enough.
    We sit there in silence.
    No more nights when the