“Please come home,” says my wife’s
breathless voice in my ear. “I’m scared.”
The World Health Organisation
believes mobile phones are not carcinogenic. But once an idea gets into your
head it grows like a tumour.
“This is not the apocalypse,” I say.
My voice echoes around the bathroom; eight steps long from sink to urinal. The
freshener on the lip of the toilet bowl drools a lucid blue smear into the
water.
“Africa is
underwater,” she says in her nagging mother voice. “There are fireballs raining
on Europe . Yellowstone has
just erupted. You can’t tell me this is normal.”
The World Trade
Organisation defines environmental crises as “largely unexpected changes in
environmental quality that are difficult if not impossible to reverse.” This is
optimistic. The known but unmentioned truth is that the environment has always
been doomed. Look at The Club of Rome’s ‘Limit’s to Growth.’ Look at how the
first world cannot bring itself to lower its standard of living to save the
third world or even to save themselves. Last week my wife told me she was
saving the environment because she recycled the egg carton. Then she drove to
the shops in her four-wheel-drive.
We have always been in
an environmental crisis. So when the religious nut-jobs call this the
apocalypse it is not really.
“I can’t come home. They
need me here. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. We were right! No-one can
deny climate change now. The people will throw their money at us. The
government will give us unlimited power. This is the day we can finally start
saving the environment.” I start pacing again and let the patter of steps
control my consciousness. She is acting so human. This is bigger than that.
“I’m putting your
daughter on the phone,” she says, “And maybe you can explain to her why you
don’t want to spend your last hours on Earth with your family.”
There is a rustling as I
am shaken around in my wife’s fist. The bathroom door opens and Caldwell comes in with his fly
already undone and a blood red slit of underwear winking at me. Without looking
at me he moves across the room to a urinal. I don’t break stride.
“Daddy?” says that soft,
milky voice. “I’m scared.”
“Darling,” I say, “don’t
be. Nothing is ever as bad as the man on the television makes it seem.” I hear
a gentle stream of piss hitting the urinal. He is trying to piss quietly so he
can listen in. “Humans have been surviving for tens of thousands of years.
Whenever something bad happens they think of a way around it. It’s called
neoliberalism. Do you want to be scared or do you want to be an explorer of the
future?”
I feel like a traitor
justifying neoliberalism to an eight-year-old while my boss listens in.
“What is he telling you, Emily?” My wife’s
voice in the background.
“He says I’m an explorer
of the future.”
“Give me the phone
back,” she says. I stare at the bathroom tiles as I pace. Serratia marcescens,
athlete’s foot, onychomycosis, plantar warts, all spread by bathroom tiles. And
nobody ever cleans this bathroom.
“What do you think
you’re doing?” she growls.
“Do you really want me
to tell my daughter that we’re all going to die, because not only is it
bullshit but it’s not helpful.” My voice is a coarse whisper trying to hide
under the hiss of urine.
“Have you ever
considered why people try to save the environment? It’s not for their
children’s future but because they have the absurd delusion that they will live
to see some difference made. It’s all bullshit.”
He hits flush. His urine
begins the journey along thirty kilometres of piping, through the pump station,
inlet screens, extended aeration tanks, sludge filtration systems and UV
disinfection ponds until it becomes water again.
“Well it’s been lovely to talk to you, honey,”
I say loudly over the jet of the tap. “But I need to get back to work now. I
will see you tonight. I’ll pick up takeaway on the way home. Goodbye.”
“Everything alright?” he
asks.
“Oh, you know; marital
troubles.”
“I hear you. Don’t you
miss the days of chaining ourselves to bulldozers and sleeping with those free
love chicks?”
“I suppose we’re getting
old.”
I follow him out of the
bathroom. We walk through reception past rows of empty offices to the
boardroom. The gaggle around the coffee machine dissipates as they see us
arrive.
“Membership has gone up
400%,” Caldwell tells me. “The
government is offering us a record-sized grant.” The boardroom is quiet,
waiting for him to address them. I take
my seat at the end of the table and he stands by the whiteboard.
“Ok,” he tells the room.
“We’ve got the resources, now what do we do?”
He looks at me. I’m not
sure what to say.