Destination: A Modern Fable

Adam, after an excellent breakfast, strolled into the lounge. An erect, competent-looking man with dark hair, he nodded to the man with whom he had discussed foreign markets the night before in the bar and sank into an easy chair. There were a dozen or so people scattered about the lounge, chatting with each other or just staring out the big windows, beaded with moisture, at the grey fog that had enveloped the ship for days. An illuminated sign on the bulkhead said, “Docking New York-1100 hours.”

“Good old New York!” thought Adam. “It will be a pleasure to see it again after so long. And then maybe, after a while, I’ll run down to Virginia.” He thought of the Valley farm near Staunton where he’d grown up and remembered the sunrise over the Blue Ridge. Then he wondered, not for the first time, why he had decided to travel in this ship instead of an airliner. One thing about a ship, it caused the events of the immediate past to seem remote. He was hazy about the last few weeks. He thought briefly of the hospital—that gentle little nurse—but that was even earlier, months ago. He certainly felt fine now. And New York lay ahead.

A few hours later, he descended the gangway and was directed to Passport Control where he handed over the passport he found in his pocket to the uniformed official with the red patches on his collar and lapels. “Welcome home!” said the official, stamping the passport. Then he said, “Since you have been away so long, it will be necessary—purely routine—for you to see one of the Supervisors. The attendant will show you the way.” The attendant, in the same red-tabbed uniform, politely led the way to a comfortable office and introduced him to the Supervisor.

“Why, I know this fellow,” thought Adam. “What is his name? He’s the man who told me how to get out of that trouble with the tax people—probably saved me from jail.”

“Hello, Adam,” said the Supervisor. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? And, as you see, I’ve got a new job now. But, you know, I had a strong hunch we’d be meeting again some day. Anyhow, have a chair—and welcome home! Your new home, I might almost say: there have been remarkable changes since you were last in New York. We sometimes call it Ultimate New York now. But if I know you, you will be pleased at the changes. For instance—we knew you were coming, of course—here is your checkbook. You now have a drawing account of one million dollars!”

Adam gasped. He started to exclaim, “My God!” but stumbled over the words and instead muttered, “Impossible! How can that be? What have I done to deserve that?”

“Oh, you deserve it,” said the Supervisor with a grin. “You are just the sort of man we like to have in New York. But, quite aside from what anyone deserves, the thing is: we have done away with poverty, you see. And that means an end to muggings and robbery since no one needs money. Even the dopers can afford their ‘crack’ or whatever. It’s almost the end of crime. I say ‘almost’ because there are still what may be called ‘hate crimes’ like attempted murder. But they are never successful; the police smell them out before they can happen. So now, Adam, you can walk the streets of our city or the paths of Central Park in perfect safety, day or night. A big change, isn’t it? You don’t even have to lock your door—in New York!”

“Wonderful! Unbelievable!” said Adam. “No wonder you call it Ultimate New York.”

“Yes,” said the Supervisor. “It has become the goodtime city. Now, one more matter concerning you—apart from the checking account, that is. I don’t know your plans, of course, but we have booked a luxury apartment for you in the Empire State Building—it’s all given over to apartments now. Since everybody has plenty of money, there’s not much demand for business offices these days. There are still a few down in Wall Street for the big dealers who, so to speak, have dealing in their souls. I remember you had some inclination that way—that little matter I advised you on—and you may have an office if you wish. But I doubt that you will.”

“No,” said Adam. “Not now at any rate. But how can I thank you? I’ve got a lot to think about, haven’t I?”

“And plenty of time to do it,” said the Supervisor, brushing a bit of dust off the red patch on his lapel. “But no need for thanks—it’s just part of the service of the City Development Office—CDO—sometimes jokingly called City Devilment.” He chuckled, and added: “You’ll find, by the way, that the shopkeepers, most of them, and the police and the Red Cab drivers, and your manservant who’ll be waiting for you, are CDO. You can tell by the red tabs: we keep the city running. Now, goodbye, Adam. Enjoy New York, and come to see me if you need anything. Goodbye.”

His head spinning from the amazing change in his position, Adam asked the Red Cab driver to take him on a small tour of the city. Everything looked much as he remembered it, though it seemed to him cleaner and somehow glossier—certainly the people looked glossier, expensive-looking. The men were sleek, and the women—had skirts ever been this short? “Practically flaunting sex,” he thought. “New York is going to be fun!”

It was a sunny day, and Central Park at first looked just as he recalled it, except, again, cleaner, tidier. But then, looking more closely, he saw that the trees had been replaced by handsome artificial ones, with metallic leaves; and the ground was covered with very green Astroturf and beds of plastic flowers. “The same, winter and summer,” commented the driver. It really was a work of art, Adam thought; and certainly the couples wandering about seemed to be enjoying it.

Later on Fifth Avenue the taxi passed what he remembered to be Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, but, surprisingly, the doors were boarded up. He asked the driver about it.

“Nobody wants it,” he said. “We don’t believe in all that old stuff about sin and Hell any more. It just went out of business, as you might say. Then for a while it was turned into a Temple of Enjoyment, like some of the other old churches—but still nobody came. They said it still felt like a church and was depressing. Then they gave it to the gay people—the homos—who used to hate it as a church, and now it was theirs. But they said it felt haunted-like. So now it’s to be torn down.”

“Just as well!” said Adam. “We don’t need that medieval rubbish. Good riddance!”

His apartment on the forty-third floor turned out to be truly luxurious, and his red-tabbed manservant, who said he was called Raven, was courteous and helpful, handing him a drink as soon as he came in and asking if he would take luncheon at home. The closet was stocked with well-fitting clothes and the drinks-cabinet contained everything he might desire. There were no books—Adam was not much of a reader anyhow—but the latest magazines were on a low table. The luncheon, after Adam had bathed, was delicious, and he decided that Raven was a jewel. In response to Adam’s questions, Raven told him as he ate about some of the scores of amusements in the city. There were several golf clubs, and Adam had already been made a member of one of them. Then, of course, there were the baseball games at the stadium, and the boxing matches and motor races. Adam was, of course, already aware of the theater district.

That evening with a bulging wallet, he dined at a fine restaurant, and then took in a Broadway musical—very charming and amusing, especially the chorus of beautiful girls dressed up as little red devils with tails looped over their arms, singing:

Pleasure is the thing—

It never has a sting.

“Right!” said Adam aloud, as the curtain came down to enthusiastic applause. “Pleasure is the thing. Pleasure for ever!”

“We’re with you there!” said the man next to him with a grin, while the pretty woman with him smiled and nodded.

That evening was the prelude to hundreds of evenings like it. In the weeks that followed Adam sampled the multitude of amusements and dining places that New York had to offer—an immense variety. Once, though, as he entered a restaurant, he spied his ex-wife at a table with a man. Adam turned swiftly and went out; he had no wish to revive that mutual hatred. He had felt a mixture of guilt and dislike in those days, now only the ashes of both. To his relief, he never ran into her again.

He also remembered a friend who had lived in New York, but finding no listing he asked Information. “He’s not here yet,” said the operator, “and it’s not known if he will be returning.” Adam recalled that the friend had been involved in some sort of relief organization. Perhaps that had taken him abroad.

The weeks turned into months, and then years. The pleasures of New York were inexhaustible for a man with plenty of money and excellent health. One day he realized that he had been in Ultimate New York for seven years, though he would have been hard put to write an account of those years. The days blended into each other, invariably pleasant, but nothing stood out. “But it has been a good time, all good,” he thought. “I’ve enjoyed every minute, haven’t I? Pleasure is the thing. What more could anyone want?” But even as the thought went through his mind, he remembered his one disappointment. “Oh, it was a minor thing,” he told himself. Still, he had once felt a wish to have a walk in the woods or a canter across a meadow. He had long before bought a car, so now he decided to drive over to New Jersey and head west until he came to real country. But starting off briskly one morning, he found both bridge and tunnels closed to all but trucks. And there were no horses or woods in the city. When he enquired of a red-tabbed official, he was told a little vaguely that this state of affairs was but temporary. But now two years later it was still in effect. The failure of his plan to go into New Jersey had revived his almost forgotten thoughts of a little journey down to the Valley of Virginia, but he found that that too was impossible. He could and did book a flight to Washington and drove into the Virginian suburbs, but beyond Arlington and Falls Church all the roads were closed for repairs. So it was, he heard, in Chicago and other big cities. He thought of having another talk with the Supervisor at the Port of New York, but his disappointment was slight, and he had never got round to it. After all, New York had everything, didn’t it?

He had now a great many acquaintances—jovial drinking companions and pleasant fellows at the club to make up a foursome with—but no close friends. There had been one man, Bruce his name was, slender and wryly humorous, with whom Adam had approached serious conversation. But just then a couple of genial acquaintances had come over to join them. The next several evenings Adam looked for Bruce, but he didn’t appear. He even asked the bartender, who shrugged and said Bruce hadn’t been there for a while.

And then there were the women, extremely attractive ones, always ready to go out to dinner and a show, and very willing, now that the whole city was immunized against AIDS, to come home with Adam or to invite him to their apartments. Fun-loving, charming ladies—”goodtime gals”—but somehow no deeper relationship ever developed, not that Adam wished for one. It was rather that he expected them to desire closeness. Once at the apartment of a bright-eyed girl named Barbara he tried, rather fumblingly, to ask why relationships always remained so superficial.

“I don’t know, I really don’t,” she said. She continued to fondle her cat, and then looked up at him. It seemed to him that a shadow of sadness crossed her face. “I don’t know,” she repeated. “Sometimes I wish… ” Her voice trailed away, and then grew stronger: “Sometimes I wish for something more, something realer, but there seems to be a block, whether in me or the guy, I just don’t know… ” And then she laughed and said gaily, “Don’t be serious, Adam. Let’s have fun. Have another drink?” Faintly uneasy, Adam didn’t pursue the matter. They had fun.

But as he left late that night, he looked again at the cat curled up on the couch and abruptly wished for a dog—some sort of a shepherd, perhaps a Border collie like the one he had so loved as a boy. But even as he walked home, he realized that he had never seen a real dog in Ultimate New York: cats and even Pekes, but never a setter or collie. He recalled a chance remark of Raven’s about a city ordinance, but still he muttered, “No dogs or horses in paradise—and no trees. No wonder the city is so clean. The Health Department, I suppose. And cats are tidier. Gives Barbara something to mother anyway—she ought to be married.” There was no response to these remarks addressed to the sleeping city. He waved off a cruising Red Cab and walked on. Then he said to the night, “But no one is!” No one he knew was married, except one or two men who jokingly complained that they practically never saw their wives.

Then for the first time in all his years in Ultimate New York the startling thought struck him: no children. He had occasionally noticed, with relief, that there were no families near him in restaurants, but now he thought: had he ever seen a baby or a toddler? A few tough-looking teenagers slinking about, but no little ones. He’d seen men and women—or men and men—with their arms round each other on his rare visits to the park, but never children playing, never a mother pushing a pram. He didn’t care much for children, but suddenly he was uneasy at their absence. “Still,” he said aloud, “I have everything I really want—money, health, pleasure—so why do I keep wanting things I don’t really want?” It occurred to him then that happily married people with children wouldn’t be in the bars, restaurants, theaters he frequented; probably they were in little houses over in Brooklyn or somewhere. He would see some eventually. “Forget it!” he told the night.

In the next weeks he threw himself into all the pleasures New York offered in such profusion, but he didn’t quite forget it. But “it” was no one thing, just a feeling of uneasiness. Perhaps the attentive Raven sensed that all was not well, for he spoke of a fellow servant whose master had been depressed until he had gone to Dr. Ashburn, one of the able CDO psychiatrists. Adam had merely said, “How interesting!” But he found himself during the next weeks thinking about his life—for Adam a most unusual activity. Then one day an acquaintance chanced to mention that he had been helped by his psychiatrist, and Adam thought “That might be just the thing for me—just what I need.” An hour later he had set up an appointment with Dr. Ashburn.

He liked Dr. Ashburn at once—a warm smile under the grey moustache, a gentle manner—and Adam found it easy to talk of the things that had led to his uneasiness. The doctor was a patient and encouraging listener. “The question you must think about,” he said, “a key question, is this: In what ways are my needs not being met here in modern New York? Don’t think about what you imagine to be the needs of others—think about your own.”

On another, later visit—Adam continued to see Dr. Ashburn for several months—the doctor said again, “The CDO people are one and all truly dedicated to meeting the needs or desires of all the citizens. But Adam, there’s another question that you must think about: Apart from CDO, what is wrong with the people around me—how are they failing to meet my needs? I have had more than one patient come to me, blaming the city or even blaming himself; but in every case it turns out that the real fault lies in the selfishness of others. Adam, you must not blame yourself—there’s nothing wrong with you. Never allow yourself to feel guilty.” Adam departed from this meeting feeling much happier. And feeling, too, a greater respect for the CDO and its efforts to help him.

At the same time, Adam began to resent in a vague way the people around him. He was open and friendly, but they were self-centered, in fact selfish. Sometimes when he was alone in a restaurant or bar, he would watch other people. And every now and then, when they weren’t laughing or joking, he would see, he thought, a hint of boredom or cruelty in their faces. But it couldn’t be boredom—who could be bored in the city of ten thousand delights?

Clearly there was nothing wrong with him—or with the city. Therefore others were to blame for anything lacking in his life. It was a comfortable understanding.

Then one evening he came into the Red Lion, his favorite pub, and saw a sturdy, fair-haired man who looked familiar sitting alone in a booth. The man looked up, and mutual recognition was instantaneous. “Peter!” shouted Adam, even as the other cried, “Adam!” They had been schoolmates in Staunton and had later gone to Washington and Lee together.

As Adam joined him, Peter said, “Adam! It’s great to see you—just great! I’d heard you were dead—the paper said you’d died in the hospital after that collision. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re okay—you look very fit. How long have you been in New York!”

“Well,” said Adam with a smile, “plainly the reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.” He thought briefly of the sweet-faced nurse in the hospital. “Anyway,” he went on, “I’ve been here for years and years. I’ve lost count. How about you?”

“Only about a year for me,” said Peter. “Long enough to begin to wonder about this Ultimate New York, though….”

“I’m slower than you,” said Adam. “Remember how you coached me in philosophy and beat a few things into my head at W & L? But I think I’m beginning to wonder, too. We can’t get out of the city, you know. Only to other big cities, not to country where there are real trees and cows.”

“And no churches anywhere,” said Peter. “I shouldn’t complain; I haven’t been to Mass for years. But there was always the feeling I could if I wanted to. Maybe none of us who ignored churches deserve one; but, well, I don’t like feeling I can’t, do you?”

“Well,” said Adam, “I never thought of that, but now that you have put it that way, I don’t like their being gone.” He laughed. “You’d think they were enemy outposts or something, the way they’ve shut them all down.” He noticed the red-tabbed barman eyeing them, and said, “Peter, let’s get out of here and go to my place and talk. I think the barman is trying to read our lips.” He laughed and said loudly, “Come on! We’ll miss the opening.”

In the Red Cab Adam’s uneasiness about New York came back with a rush. Dr. Ashburn’s words faded in the honest gaze—the reality—of friendship.

Back at his apartment, he told Raven to take the evening off, as he had done other times when he expected a woman. Once they were alone, they settled themselves comfortably with drinks beside them.

“Now,” said Adam. “What do you think, Peter. I can see that you have an idea of some kind.”

“First of all,” said Peter, “that wreck you were in. It was in all the papers. You died in the hospital after briefly regaining consciousness only an hour after they got you there. Body sent back to Staunton. Big funeral. I don’t think they’d get all that wrong, do you? As for me, I remember fever and, sort of dimly, the doctor saying to someone that it was double-pneumonia—I don’t remember anything else. Adam,” (he paused) “I think we’re both dead, don’t you? The question is: where are we now? Where is this Ultimate New York?”

Dead!” cried Adam. “And yet, it makes awful sense. So—is this Heaven? A lot of people would think so—all the money you want, cars, shows, every luxury and comfort. No crime. Everybody happy. Who could ask for more? Think of the people who would call it a heaven of heavens! But, surely, no one could be bored in heaven—bored with pleasure! And yet, Peter, I’ve been trying to deny it, saying I ought to be grateful—but I am bored. It’s all so meaningless. This is the very first time in all these years I’ve really talked with anybody, except my CDO psychiatrist. Most people just shrink away if you touch upon anything serious. Anything real. There’s no genuine friendship here—you and I are an exception. And lots of beautiful women—pleasure gals—but no love. Nothing is real, not even the grass and trees in the Park. Have you noticed?”

“I have noticed,” said Peter. “But no one else seems to, except you. And something more: Broadway plays—all so clever and witty, and slightly depraved, but never anything that strikes deep. Never any Shakespeare. Or remember A Man for All Seasons? Nothing like that. As you say, never anything real. And no books except spy thrillers and shallow romances—and porn.”

“And no babies!” said Adam. “No kids or dogs or horses. Why? Because they are all too alive and wriggling—too real, too loving! Peter—we agree, don’t we? this is not Heaven.”

“Oh, absolutely!” said Peter. “Heaven, if there is one, can’t be boring and… and hollow.” He took a deep swallow of Scotch. Then he said gloomily, “There’s no way out, as far as I can see. I almost want to cry when I think of mornings we had, there under the Blue Ridge: deer bounding away into the brush, the dogs dancing about because it was a walk, birds singing—remember birds? There’s not a bird in all New York….” He was silent for a moment, and then went on: “You know, Adam, I’ve done a lot of things that I’m right sorry for, but—well, I’d like to see a priest. He might know what to do.”

“I wasn’t a Catholic, as you know,” said Adam. “Not much of anything, really. And I’ve been thinking that I’d like to talk to a countryman—a wise old Virginian farmer. But in our fix, a priest might make sense. He might know more than a farmer or other sorts of parson. Yes, I’d like to see one, too. But how—how in this luxurious desert? Is there a way?”

How is what I don’t know,” said Peter. His hand moved. Adam recognized the Sign of the Cross and caught the whispered words “… and the Son… ” and bowed his own head.

“That is how!” said a deep voice. “That is the way.”

They looked up, startled. There was the priest, very ordinary, somewhat plump, smiling at them. He was smoking a cigar. “An angel?” thought Adam. “Whoever heard of an angel with a paunch and a cigar in his mouth?” He grinned with sudden cheerfulness at the priest. Peter, too, was smiling broadly.

“My sons,” said the priest, “you wanted to see me, so I came. You both, Peter and Adam, are ready for what is next. Some here will never be. Others—remember Bruce, Adam? He went on before you. And there’s hope for Barbara. But now, this very evening, you-all are ready. It won’t be easy or luxurious—but you-all have had your fill of easy luxury. And one thing I can promise you, my sons: it will not be boring or, Peter’s good word, hollow. So it’s goodbye to Ultimate New York. Are you both willing to come?”

“Yes!” they said with one voice. “Yes, Father,” Peter repeated.

“Right!” said the priest, with a pleased smile. “Take my hands, dear boys….”

Author

  • Sheldon Vanauken

    Sheldon Vanauken (1914 — 1996) is an American author, best known for his autobiographical book A Severe Mercy (1977), which recounts his and his wife's friendship with C. S. Lewis, their conversion to Christianity and dealing with tragedy. He published a sequel, Under the Mercy in 1985.

tagged as:

Join the Conversation

in our Telegram Chat

Or find us on
Item added to cart.
0 items - $0.00

Orthodox. Faithful. Free.

Signup to receive new Crisis articles daily

Email subscribe stack
Share to...