How Johnny Cash Saved my Life––300 Years After He Died
By Abigail Isaac
Copyright 2012 by Abigail Isaac
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“Just shut up already! I don’t care about Rosanna!”
I know it’s a just song, but it’s 4:30 in the morning and I’m exhausted. Otherwise, I’d shut him up myself. The jailer curses me and sings louder. I didn’t exactly expect anything from him. He’s one of those strange fellows who likes to sing off-key to three-hundred-year-old songs--just to annoy the prisoners. And to keep them from sleeping. He also likes to make crude comments about anything, but me in particular, seeing how I’m the only girl he gets to watch tonight. No wonder he can only get a job as a night jailer. Still, between him and this ridiculously uncomfortable night-club getup, sleep is nearly impossible.
As the song ends, another jailer barks into my block about a call. The singing jailer steps out and, for the first time that night, I think I snag some sleep. Then, I hear the music clearly.
Never heard a song ‘bout being in prison before. ‘Specially not one that actually said what’s it like being in a small, cold cell. Waiting for a possible freedom. Dreaming of life outside. If anyone knew about prison, I did. And so did that singer.
At that moment, I fall in love.
‘Course that doesn’t matter while I sit in prison waiting hopefully for someone--anyone--to post my bail. On that, I’m being way too imaginative. I’m the kind of person no one wants to be known to associate with so, of course, no one posts my bail. Hell, who am I kidding? There’s only one person who wanted to associate with me period and he’s long gone. Now, there’s no one. And it’s not just because of my long string of arrests with no convictions. It’s my head. They just don’t know I know the reason. They don’t know the reason themselves.
Towards sunrise, a new jailer comes in and I get a few hours of sleep before he drags me out to be processed before a judge. As the judge talks, I work on “convincing” him to let me go. He’s tough one--strong on morals. Those are always the hardest, but lucky for me, they’re also pretty rare now. Within five minutes, he releases me with a warning. Like that’ll really stop me. Then again, they don’t know half of what they could arrest me for.
First thing I do once free is change into sweatpants and a plain, loose shirt. Comfort clothes. Then, I find out who sang that song and torrent every single one he ever recorded. Turns out he’s called Johnny Cash. There’s a lot of rip offs from ‘round the 2070s. Got to be careful. Toss those in my cloud and make sure my pod is synced before I head out on the first spaceship that leaves that planet. Don’t really care where I go so long as I’m gone.
See, I’m real good at reading between the lines. Maybe it’s just another manifestation; I don’t know. All I know is some people are awfully close to figuring out all I did and, once they do, I’ll be tossed in a military prison. Been there twice. First time, I got lucky. Saw someone who had ‘nough authority to release me that first day. That’s the only way I can get out of those myself. Second time, I was so drained from the “conversations” that my mind didn’t do me any good. Then the people higher up stepped in and I got in trouble for even getting caught. They don’t like that. I’m suppose to be invisible. Untraceable.
So, soon as I read I might get caught, I skedaddle out of a place.
During that flight, I get a good chance to listen to this Johnny Cash dude. Turns out he’s my brother. Not in genetics. A lot of crazy things came out of the radiation storms, myself included, but no time-traveling, space-traveling sperm. (Or would the outer colonies were I was born be where Old Earth was when Johnny Cash born? Then we’d just need time-traveling.) No matter. He knew how I feel. How empty the world is. Sure, if the higher ups knew how I managed to do so well, some’d say I need therapy. A person can’t twist another’s mind every time she gets into a scrap and not come out without some psycho damage. But that’s the least of my problems. I mean--seriously--if I ever actually told someone my own mother dropped me off at school one day when I was six, soon after she figured out what I could do, and never came back, they’d never let me do this work. Not without months of therapy. Even then, I doubt they would. Bouncing through foster homes made them pause long enough.
That’s why I tell everyone my mom died. My dad--he died too, but I never knew him. Radiation storms were pretty dangerous and the outer colonies weren’t prepared for anything like that. But I can’t rightly say she died there too, seeing how she’s still pregnant with me then and not that far along. So she “died” when I was young; I say I can’t remember it. It keeps the questions to a minimal and so long as I’m not the reason--like she died giving birth to me--it’s passes without any therapy needed.
Truth is I know exactly where she lives. Tracked her down once. She has a new family--a safe family. Sometimes I wonder if she ever thinks ‘bout me. All I know is that she’s still alive and thriving in a safe environment while I’m doing the best I can avoid arrest, prison and some torture thrown in for good measure.
Sure ain’t how Cash described his family, with all their singin’ after work and gettin’ along oh so greatly. But all siblings are a bit different, right?
The thing is if I’m not careful, they’ll throw me in a psycho ward. I need to say all the right things in my decom interviews so I don’t raise any red flags that say I’m crazy. That takes smarts. Smarts I doubt they think I have. So far as those shrinks know, I’m clean and have no lasting problems from my work, my past, or anything really.
Ha!
Would you have no lasting problems if the only job you could get is that of a spy? Things changed a lot since Cash’s time. All businesses run a medical background check, since they’re mandated to supply insurance. With these checks, any possible employer knows my brain is different. They don’t know how exactly; I don’t let any doc run any tests and I didn’t cooperate with them as a kid. Who knows what they’d find if they did? All they know for sure is that I have some “brain damage from intrauterine space-radiation exposure related to the radiation storms.” Yeah. That’s a mouthful. But that’s enough. Any employer who runs the check finds that and--Bam! I’m too crazy for work. Too many people heard the stories and are scared of the radiation storms to hire me, even if they happened twenty-four years ago.
When I finally land, I’ve listened to each of the Johnny Cash songs ‘bout ten times. Not ‘cluding while I sleep. Strange, I think. I can’t sleep without noise. My mind is too active otherwise. But thanks to my mind, I can still tell if someone is coming, particularly if they intend to harm me.
‘Course, soon as I leave the ship, they meet me, bring me into the decom, and make sure I’m still stable. I manage to steal a glimpse of the brilliant sunset as they shove me into a car between the spaceport and the office building. I’d much rather go for a long walk down the river to settle my thoughts before decom, but it never works like that. I give them the same crap answers I always give, take my hotel key, and escape into the twilight.
Yet--as I walk outside--the silence envelopes me. I don’t remember ever feeling this empty. Not when my mom left me, and I waited outside of school for three hours, all the while assuring the aide that my mom would be there. She probably just ran to the grocery store or something. Not when I told him the truth about me and spent the whole night pacing my room, both hoping and dreading his eventual call. Nor when he decided I revolted him and vanished on a black mission for over a year. Inside me is just--empty. It’s like something left me and yet nothing could leave ‘cause I’ve got nothin’ to begin with. I want something to happen now. Something to shock me to life. I
don’t know what. My heart feels like a giant metal lump in my chest. A darkness dragging me down. I feel worse after this mission than I have in months--though missions always have a bitter ending for me. Like a rude reminder of my cruel reality.
I start to walk the streets. Quietly. Like a ghost. My hood pulled tight over my head. Signs flash above me. Music--rough, loud, nonsense music--blares from stores and through my headphones. Occasionally, a couple walks past me or some teens laugh and joke. Yet, even then, I’m a ghost.
I hate this feeling. I hate the