country.
“Bro?” Robert prompts, when Russell says nothing. “’Sup?”
When white guys walking on strangers’ roofs in Oak Brook start using any given street argot, it’s time to seal the word up in the dictionary mausoleum.
“You know that stuff you’re taking?” Russell asks.
“What, the fulvic acid?”
“No. The emotion stuff.”
“The selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor? Not to worry. I got the kinks out. It’s working fine now.”
“Can it make you . . . I don’t know . . .
euphoric
?”
Robert makes the sound of a laugh. “I told you. All it does is let me talk to strangers without wigging. Makes me feel a little bigger than I am. Like I’ve got something to give other people.”
A shudder crests across Russell’s skull. The drug makes his brother more
generous
.
“Pretty subtle effect,” Robert insists. “Really: once you get over the slight depersonalization, it’s no biggie.”
“Sure, but do you think that other people who take it might get more—”
“Little brother wants euphoria? Huh. I’d have to shop around.”
“It’s not . . . I’m not looking for, for myself . . . It’s about that class I’m teaching.”
“I got ya,” Robert says, not convinced that Russell is teaching anything.
Russell pictures his brother micropositioning a dish with one hand, C-clamping the cell to his face with the other. It doesn’t matter. You never have anyone’s full attention anymore, anyway. Focus has gone the way of other flightless birds. “There’s a girl in the class . . . a woman, and I just wanted to know if—”
“You want
Rohypnol
? Date rape? Don’t do it, man; you can go to prison. Like for
ever
.”
Russell says nothing. Prison would simplify many things.
“Look,” Robert says, concerned. “Little bro. I’ve known you, like,always, right? Euphoria is not for you. You used to sit in front of the Saturday-morning cartoons like you were studying for a final exam. You’re the kind of guy who needs his pleasures in very modest dosages. Have you thought about maybe a multivitamin?”
“I’ll try that,” Russell tells his brother.
Robert chuckles at whatever truculent antenna he is trying to hogtie. “Roscoe, let’s face facts. We’re depressives. It’s in the Stone gene pool. Embrace it. It wouldn’t have hung around for so many generations if it wasn’t essential.”
Thomas Kurton has never doubted that happiness is chemical. Meaningless to call it anything else. Like a third of the country, he’s tried mood brighteners. They did indeed brighten him, a little. But they also smeared him. They took away a little of that fighter-pilot clarity. So he ditched the brighteners; if he had to choose, he’d rather be keen than bright.
But he has never accepted that people should have to choose.
He talks often about the massive structural flaw in the way the brain processes delight. The machinery of gladness that
Homo sapiens
evolved over millions of years in the bush is an evolutionary hangover in the world that
Homo sapiens
has built. Back on the savannah, stress kept us alive. Natural selection shaped us for productive discontent, with glimmers of heavenly mirage to keep us going. As Kurton puts it in his article “Stairway to Paradise”:
A mix of nasty neurochemical pathways, built, doubtless, by a small set of legacy genes, now plagues us with negative feedback loops and illusory come-ons. What passes for everyday consciousness feels to me increasingly like borderline psychosis. Depression had its uses once, when mankind was on the run. But now that we’re somewhat safe, it’s time to free the subjugated populace and show what the race can do, armed with sustainable satisfaction at last.
His sister had a chemistry set: Kurton’s life follows from that. He was eight, Patty ten. Up until then, he had been the better magician. Hecould make a coin look like he was bending it over his thumb. Now, overnight, Patty
“Bro?” Robert prompts, when Russell says nothing. “’Sup?”
When white guys walking on strangers’ roofs in Oak Brook start using any given street argot, it’s time to seal the word up in the dictionary mausoleum.
“You know that stuff you’re taking?” Russell asks.
“What, the fulvic acid?”
“No. The emotion stuff.”
“The selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor? Not to worry. I got the kinks out. It’s working fine now.”
“Can it make you . . . I don’t know . . .
euphoric
?”
Robert makes the sound of a laugh. “I told you. All it does is let me talk to strangers without wigging. Makes me feel a little bigger than I am. Like I’ve got something to give other people.”
A shudder crests across Russell’s skull. The drug makes his brother more
generous
.
“Pretty subtle effect,” Robert insists. “Really: once you get over the slight depersonalization, it’s no biggie.”
“Sure, but do you think that other people who take it might get more—”
“Little brother wants euphoria? Huh. I’d have to shop around.”
“It’s not . . . I’m not looking for, for myself . . . It’s about that class I’m teaching.”
“I got ya,” Robert says, not convinced that Russell is teaching anything.
Russell pictures his brother micropositioning a dish with one hand, C-clamping the cell to his face with the other. It doesn’t matter. You never have anyone’s full attention anymore, anyway. Focus has gone the way of other flightless birds. “There’s a girl in the class . . . a woman, and I just wanted to know if—”
“You want
Rohypnol
? Date rape? Don’t do it, man; you can go to prison. Like for
ever
.”
Russell says nothing. Prison would simplify many things.
“Look,” Robert says, concerned. “Little bro. I’ve known you, like,always, right? Euphoria is not for you. You used to sit in front of the Saturday-morning cartoons like you were studying for a final exam. You’re the kind of guy who needs his pleasures in very modest dosages. Have you thought about maybe a multivitamin?”
“I’ll try that,” Russell tells his brother.
Robert chuckles at whatever truculent antenna he is trying to hogtie. “Roscoe, let’s face facts. We’re depressives. It’s in the Stone gene pool. Embrace it. It wouldn’t have hung around for so many generations if it wasn’t essential.”
Thomas Kurton has never doubted that happiness is chemical. Meaningless to call it anything else. Like a third of the country, he’s tried mood brighteners. They did indeed brighten him, a little. But they also smeared him. They took away a little of that fighter-pilot clarity. So he ditched the brighteners; if he had to choose, he’d rather be keen than bright.
But he has never accepted that people should have to choose.
He talks often about the massive structural flaw in the way the brain processes delight. The machinery of gladness that
Homo sapiens
evolved over millions of years in the bush is an evolutionary hangover in the world that
Homo sapiens
has built. Back on the savannah, stress kept us alive. Natural selection shaped us for productive discontent, with glimmers of heavenly mirage to keep us going. As Kurton puts it in his article “Stairway to Paradise”:
A mix of nasty neurochemical pathways, built, doubtless, by a small set of legacy genes, now plagues us with negative feedback loops and illusory come-ons. What passes for everyday consciousness feels to me increasingly like borderline psychosis. Depression had its uses once, when mankind was on the run. But now that we’re somewhat safe, it’s time to free the subjugated populace and show what the race can do, armed with sustainable satisfaction at last.
His sister had a chemistry set: Kurton’s life follows from that. He was eight, Patty ten. Up until then, he had been the better magician. Hecould make a coin look like he was bending it over his thumb. Now, overnight, Patty
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