Free Super Flat Times by Matthew Derby Page A

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    A featureless head came up on the monitor. “Welcome. Thank you for investing in the future of our great nation. We have successfully determined your racial makeup. You may now select an egg cluster from one of the following regions: Pusan, Seoul, Cheju, Pyongyang.”
    I looked up. Chu Su was weeping, streaming silent tears.
    “Does it hurt?” I asked, reaching out to touch her arm over the handlebars. The voice on the monitor said, “Please do not remove your hands from the handgrips at any time during this simulation.”
    The vehicle did slow doughnuts in the center of the concrete floor.
    “No,” she said. “I can’t feel anything at all.”

Joy of Eating
    The Tins
    They have taken the joy of eating from us, and so we sit at table, hands folded in prayer, each in personal cardboard food booths. At the beginning of our meal, the signal is given. Elaine inserts the corn cob. William, with half-palsied face, picks at his beefsteak. “No more of that,” cries Mother. “No more — we will have no more of that,” she calls from her booth. Father, having come to us by means of a remote-control device, slouches in his chair, head in hands. Perhaps he does not belong to us. The twins feed each other dense gray portions of mashed potato, pasting the material to each other’s face and forehead. “No more of that — children.” Mother will use the wooden spoon, she warns them. The portions, delicately and lovingly arranged on every plate, will taste no different than on other nights. Meals arrive at our doorstep in heavy tins. Instructions are that each family member assist in the meal. William will help stir. Elaine needs a phone book to stand on. I will sift flour from a metal can with a trigger. Look, a tasty dip can be made with sour cream and onion soup. Mother tucks the meat, garnishing it with cherries and pineapple rings.
    Novelty of Heat
    The joy of eating taken from us, we are allowed to play in the yard. William, this time, is the German. We each break into a rapid, awkward gait, scattering across the lawn. Elaine crouches behind the hedge. The twins have not learned the rules. William is gaining on them. I have climbed into the high branches of the sycamore tree, where the animal qualities of children are most apparent. This section of the yard is made up entirely of smells. William falls ass-backwards, wheezing, the wind knocked out of him. A truck rolls down the street, selling cupped ice. Summer will pass in this way, each night progressively longer, more dissonant, objects lurching in the sky overhead.
    The Hard Candies
    The joy of eating is gone. Mother, having taken the Germans for a walk, washes her face and hair in the kitchen sink. We are not to look. Father works alone in the forbidden room. It is conjectured that he has been to war. Elaine shows me her secret, a cache of brightly colored hard candies she hides behind the porch steps. She sucks on one and begins to cry. Everything is about as useful as water now.
    Into Her Mouth
    Eating, that joy in which we have taken part for as long as we can remember, has been revoked. Father is outside, wielding the lawn mower in concentric squares. William, who has been punished, sits alone in his room in a chair by the window, diagramming the behavior of birds. Elaine is out with friends. I am sitting down to a bowl of ice and a fresh comic book. It is cool here in the dark kitchen. Summer, as reported, has been the worst season for food. Dirt has a taste, it is reported. The suggestion is that one mix small amounts of dirt into one’s meal. Mother, in her garden, gingerly inserts a finger into her mouth.
    Joust
    Each of us, in turn, recalls the joy of eating, now lost to us. William has been fighting with the other boys. They wear cloth helmets and carry long wooden poles for jousting. The goal is emasculation. They can be heard in the streets before dark, charging at one another fiercely. An ice cone truck passes. Mother sets her magazine down,