Bricker One - it's a short story from Phil

The application forms arrived on the doormat, a hefty wad of instructions, and endless pages of boxes to fill. Petra thought: paper forms? A little backward. She unsealed the brown envelope and scanned tiredly through the notes on completion.

“DO NOT lie on your insurance renewal application form. This will void your policy and prevent you from receiving your medical support.”

Petra exhaled slowly and thought about her mother. She had died from breast cancer five months ago, aged just 52. Petra’s mother, a dry yet vivacious woman, jolly yet cynical, dissatisfied but content, had been given a genetic test as part of her diagnosis. The clinician’s aim was to match the treatment to the type of cancer. They did so, but they couldn’t control its shedding of cells, seeding new growths in Petra’s mother’s bones. The test found that Petra’s mother had a mutation in a gene called BRCA1. Bricker One, Petra called it. There was a fifty per cent chance that Petra had inherited the mutation too.

The accident of a person’s birth has always determined their life course; this was truer than ever now. The so-called greatest revolution in modern medicine since antibiotics had reversed social progress worldwide. Nowadays, advantage was granted by the dealing of the genetic Tarot cards. Chit-chat about a person’s genome substituted for gossip about their family or prospects; everybody became armchair geneticists. Quite legally, managers hired and fired on the basis of genome sequences: ‘Dan, mate, turns out your genome isn’t quite shipshape. We have to let you go.’ And that was that; Petra was the breadwinner and Dan lay around and lamented his ‘hypertension predisposition’ genes.

Leaving the forms on the little plastic table and tapping Dan’s legs to get him to shift, Petra dumped herself on the threadbare couch. She was the taller of the two, skinny by necessity, looking older than she was. Dan used to be more handsome, but his sleepy and grizzled look of late did him no favours. The pair stared at the TV. The Minister for Health and Wellbeing was out justifying himself again. …Policy is predicated on unprecedented honesty about ourselves… tribute to our open society… advances in embryo screening… disadvantage needn’t be passed on…

Petra pictured herself, nano-ised, crawling along the Ministers DNA, yanking apart base pairs, karate chopping the double helix into ticker tape that would rain down on his innumerable diagnoses. She would swing proteins about like a hammer-thrower and give the bastard prostate cancer, non-Hodgkins lymphoma, kidney tumours… breast cancer, she thought numbly. Petra left Dan on the sofa and went to bed. She dreamed of an insurance form with a single question printed on pure white paper: Are you human? Yes/No.

On the next day, Petra awoke defiant, with the burr of a nefarious scheme snagged on her mind. She flicked on the TV and searched the web for ‘genome clean up’. There were countless links to government condemnations of the illegal practice, but eventually she came across Born Free Genomics. The website was almost devoid of content; there was simply an exhortation to call an international number to speak confidentially to BFG about ‘genome optimisation’. The domain was .kz.

She called and a suspicious voice answered. The woman asked Petra a host of questions about her life, seemingly to establish her authenticity and that she wasn’t an informer. Petra asked if the company could help her with her health insurance form, explaining the Bricker One situation.

“You will have to take a government-regulation blood sample, 100ml. Send it to us high-security. Our geneticist will correct any faults in the code in every cell in the sample, so it is totally clean for sending to the insurance company. This takes a week. Our charge is 1000 US dollars per sample.”

Petra whistled through her teeth, a habit her mother had always grumbled about.

“Your premium will be five times that per year if you have BRCA1 mutation,” said the voice down the line.

“Alright,” breathed Petra. “Give me the address.”

She hung up after writing it down and went out to the pharmacy for a sample kit. The pharmacist gave her a sympathetic glance as he handed over the plastic vial and sealed needle. “The bottle is pre-treated with anti-clotting compounds already, so no need for the gel.”

At home, Petra got Dan out of bed and into the bathroom with her. “You take my sample,” she said. “I can’t stick myself.”

Dan, when he had a job, was the sample taker for a company that checked other firms’ employees for genetic fraud; they could be called in at any time for spot checks ordered by the management. Dan had been involved in exposing dozens of dodges and lies by the genetically inferior; ironically, the more advanced testing developed by his company exposed his own potential blood pressure problems. Seamlessly, he tied a flannel as a tourniquet around his wife’s upper arm and tapped the veins. He opened the needle packet and drew out the huge sample. He transferred the blood into the bottle and screwed on the cap, while Petra sat on the toilet lid with her eyes closed.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

Dan, as though exhausted by reprising a small parcel of his day’s work, went back to bed. Petra went and posted her sample special delivery, along with a money transfer chip holding $1000. It was ten days before the sample clanged back through the letter box. As though they knew exactly when she was receiving it, BFG called just then. It was a different person on the phone, a man this time.

“Petra, I trust you have received your sample. You can look forward to very low insurance premiums for the next ten years. Perhaps you will think of using us again, when your renewal is due.” He spoke quietly, carefully – like her mother’s doctors, thought Petra. She measured his words, sensing the implication.

“Why, will I need the clean-up in future?” she asked.

The man hesitated. “Are you asking for details on what we found in your genome?”

Petra pondered the power of such knowledge; and the terror. If she knew that she had the Bricker One mutation, she could do all sorts of things. But they were perverse things: prophylactic mastectomies, preventative chemotherapy.

“No,” said Petra, and she rang off.

a seventieth story...'cornelius obit, 1969'

Cornelius was a social hand grenade.  He was in danger of going off any given moment.  Taking the tobacco pipe out of his mouth was, on occasion, akin to removing the pin in the aforesaid projectile.  There was always a chance he would say something unspeakably vulgar, or ill-judged, often at a particularly audible volume, in a particularly voluble manner.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, in view of his volatile nature, Cornelius divided opinion.  Quiet subversive types secretly delighted in his volcanic outbursts; mild mannered, easy going types (often the types who also frown upon others) despised him; the gregarious and equally (though not quite equally) combustible characters felt both comradeship and revulsion (revulsion since they are often the types who do not like their thunder stolen, or broadcast air space invaded). 

In many respects, Cornelius was a soul divided.  He loved, and he hated.  One minute he would be caressing with his left hand, the next, fighting with his right.  There was little or no middle ground, no sitting on the proverbial boundary fence.  And, of course, his countenance was as ever changing as the British weather: when buoyant his features were as bright and gay as a Spring morning; when the crimson tide of anger rolled in, his jaw became set, his tone cutting and scornful.

Social hand grenade, or party popper.  It could be difficult at first hand to decide whether you would suffer Cornelius’ verbal shrapnel, or delight in the colourful puzzle of fluorescence, as he might otherwise come across. 

Drink was typically at the centre of things for Cornelius.  Often the brown stuff.  After several Whiskeys, Cornelius, if aroused would morph into a modern-day Lord Byron, if angered, he would kick around like a wasp-stung ass, turning over tables and chairs.  He had the wrath of a Roman God, and in fairness, every now and again, the poise.

When Cornelius was feeling affably drunk, he would clap me on the shoulder and remind me his name was of Roman origin.  But I could only bring to mind Dr Cornelius and then, without too much of leap (especially in present company, furthermore, if we were out picnicking on a Saturday afternoon in the municipal park) La Planète Des Signes.  There is (or was) also Cornelius Vanderbilt, an American rail road tycoon, and Cornelius, a third century Pope.  Amen.

It’s a shame the Cornelius I knew won’t be remembered (at least for the right reasons) by very many people.  Whether you liked him or not, people of his ilk are worth their place in your life, at worst, simply in the way the can help solidify your own sense of identity.  You can define yourself against them by saying: ‘Well, I’m not like him’, or, ‘I would never do/say that!’.  Thing is, more often than we care to admit, we are thinking, wanting to do the same thing, but we don’t let on.  Which is more noble?  Which is more true to the Self?

(Truly, I’m damned if know).

Anyhow, Cornelius had the potential to be a great artist, although he could not stick at any discipline for very long.  It would be sculpture one month (the perfect medium for him to let out his worldly frustrations), oils the next (more sympathetically composed amidst the crumbling remains of various busts, and half formed heads), acrylics thereon (hurriedly painted over sheets of glass taken from his own studio windows), and so forth. 

I remember he asked me to sit for him once, so I did.  I was rather intrigued.  But following perhaps half an hour of preliminary sketches, he emerged from behind his easel and announced it was time for lunch, a lunch from which we never returned owing to copious amounts of wine with our cheese course. 

After Cornelius’ death I tried to find the unfinished portrait among the dust, grime and general detritus of his derelict studio, but could not, and consider it a shame to this day.  It would have been the perfect memento mori to a fast, incandescent and yet unfulfilled life, brimming with, in the end, unrealised promise, now half buried in the low tide of collective memory.

a thirty fifth poem...'ding a ling'

My father doesn’t remember my name anymore.

When I ask him who I am

He cocks his head to one side

Looks at me quizzically, says: ‘Michael?’

I say: ‘Michael is your other son

I am Christopher’.

‘Christopher, that’s right!’ he exclaims,

As if an apple just fell from a tree and onto his head

‘Eureka!’ he shouts

(Although he doesn’t know why).

Then I take a picture from the mantelpiece

And give it him.

He holds it shakily in his hands

And rotates the frame around so he is looking at the backing card.

I turn it over again.

It’s a photograph of the family at a bluegrass festival last year.

‘The bluegrass festival’, I tell him

He clicks his tongue and grins.

Mum comes in

- she’s carrying a tray of biscuits -

I ask Dad if he remembers

He glances at me

Raises an eyebrow

And says, ‘ding a ling’.

a thirty fourth poem...'drugs and elvis'

When you take uppers

Your spirits are lifted,

When you take downers

You feel irrefutably human again,

When you take both at the same time

You end up proclaiming something like:

‘We all should follow Christ’,

In a Vegas hotel

Surrounded by fast food cartons.

a thirty third poem...'lewis carroll'

Tweedle Dum

Was also Tweedle Dee

Was also Tweedle Dum - 

You see

No jolly grapes

Rugby punter

Could tell the difference.

Both had:

Two good hands

At the end of

Two good arms;

Both could run fast

Like the Underwoods

Last

Two whole halves

Chasing an out of shape football.

Both had

Sports Science degrees

Bad

Brains between

Two good legs,

Explosive kegs

Was what Coach said.

Coach was 'big daddy',

And still he struggled

To tell them apart

For he never read

Or took to heart

At any stage

During his formative time at Loughborough University

(Or an other sportive institute,

Delete as appropriate)

The complete works of Lewis Carroll.

a thirty second poem...'jeff, i love you too'

Jeff,

I love - you - too

…But:

We don’t spend quality time

Together any more

(I mean, when was the last occasion we made love

On the living room floor?),

And

We don’t laugh as much as we did

(All you go on about is your wretched

Income lid)

(I mean, why don’t you just

..Get a new job?)

Then

There’s Bob –

He’s been very sweet with me,

 And let’s be honest

You can be

A short-sighted prick

..Some days..

Jeff

I want to kick

Your goddamn walking-stick

From under you, guess

What?

I even want to boot you

In your forty carat crotch,

Smash your (faux) golden pocket watch

With a claw-hammer.

 (I mean, what happened to all

The promises of glamour).

Jeff, 

I love you too

...But:

We’ve never been shopping

In Piccadilly Arcade,

For diamonds, pearls

A girl’s

Best friend

I mean, I would follow you

To the bitter end

But for Chrissakes!

You ain’t worth much

In the marriage stakes.

Jeff,

I love you too

But here’s your wedding ring back

You no good fuckin’ screw!!

a thirty first poem...'i get nervous'

I get nervous

When you say

You want to meet up

Any given day,

Turn the invite

Upside down

Inside, out, around

(and around).

- I can't see whether you really mean it

Over the bleedin' telephone - 

Still, my guilty feet

Adopt a will of their own

Lead me out the house

Further up the road

(on
..and on)

Until before long

I see you
(anon?)

Sitting, patient on the benches

Outside the bar,

Mercilessly photogenic,

Hair in a tousled bob

(No bra?

..Fresh from of the shower?).

And here it takes

All my residual power

Not to sidle behind the wheelie bins

On the corner

By the chip shop,

- A pre-fab, pink breeze block,

Belonging to the boss-eyed Turk –

And cower.