A-Void

jar of peanut butter, bags of chips and cookies—and a tall bottle of vodka. I fill a bag with bruised apples and as I exit the store, I feel a flash of relief that I don’t have to punch through the rewards/coupon/payment/donation/survey screens at the checkout.
I need some new clothes. Outside the entryway of Macy’s-Bloomingdale’s-Saks-Kohl’s, mounds of trash rising over the rim of a blue dumpster collect moisture and larvae. Once inside, surprised by the advertisement “Fall’s New Fashions—Sale Ends February 27,” I momentarily forget what’s happening, but then the hum of a buffing machine catches my attention.
“Hello?” I call out, but no one’s there. I wonder if the mannequins know something I don’t.
I feather through hanging shirts and realize I can grab anything I want—any necktie, jacket, watch, briefcase—but I have no interest.
Back inside the car, I slap myself again, but again nothing changes. I inspect my eyes, mouth, and palms. Maybe I hit my head somewhere? Maybe I was drugged. But by whom? The smugglers?
I must attempt to keep track of my mind. I must backtrack how I got here. Shuffling through the glove box, I pull out a stack of sticky notes and a pen. I’ll start with now: “TIME 1 / GOING TO JOAQUIN’S HOUSE / 10:30 AM.”

TIME 2
This is how it all started.
Successively, opulent mansions arose on Castle Hill. Over massive dirt mounds, cranes puppeteered roof trusses, rafters, and tie beams. Along sidewalks, tent camps of coolers, barbecues, and lanterns faced celebrities’ homes. A shrine decorated with flowers, candles, fruits, and gifts sat in the middle of each camp.
Among them was The Director’s five-story mansion, introduced by refined hedged lawns and exotic pastel flowers embanking canals and rivulets. After passing a 3,000-square-foot doghouse, I arrived into the enclave of his ten-car garage. Above it, a banner read, “Grand Opening Coming Soon!”
The two security officers standing already at my window surprised me as I reached to unfasten my seatbelt. They escorted me around a corner to where The Director was on a mound behind his home, surveying scrapers, dump trucks, and hydraulic shovels with sharp teeth and dipper buckets.
Two other guards patrolled a picnic area, its lawn speckled with workers from the San Fernando Valley; Westside Work Visas in plastic pouches dangled from each of their necks. Under juniper trees, carpenters, painters, and gardeners escaped a bronzing sun. I watched one guard escort three of the men to a food truck.
After the Los Angeles Civil War, rich communities erected confinement gates to keep others out. At night, hired militia thronged a long gate along Mulholland Drive, to combat border raids and their homemade explosives from the Valley Territory.
“Hey, you!” From within the group of workers, a young man rose to his feet and signaled to me. I was shocked to observe his chained wrists.
“Yes?”
“Ask that man how I’m supposed to feed my seven kids?” With both arms, he motioned to a strikingly obese teenager. “You see my oldest son? He’s fifteen years old. How’s he supposed to feed his one-year-old girl? The government doesn’t pay him enough welfare.” He flung his arms dismissively and started to turn around. “You see this green dot?” he said, reenergized. He pointed to the sticker on his chest, denoting that he was infection-free. “Everything happens for a reason. God has blessed me with His grace.”
The guards patted me to keep moving.
“Welcome to all of this, B,” The Director said. A small fluorescent pink dog sat at his feet.
“It’s Billy, Robert.”
“I told you I don’t have time to say whole names.” He moved his syringe to his left hand and offered a handshake without turning to look at me. “I heard your little exchange there. Don’t you see?” The Director wiped the Botox spilling from the injection point at his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. “Survival of the fittest has no meaning anymore. They insist on being paid cash but will not pay any taxes. Free rent, free daycare, free food, free clothes, free medicine, free education, free early retirement, and stolen shopping carts in case carrying one bag gets tiring. There’s no limit, and in fact, you get more if you get fatter and have more children.”
“Why do you hire them then?”
“Kids are such a delight. I think mine are now taking dance, piano, guitar, and voice lessons, art classes, foreign language, karate, soccer, lacrosse, basketball, gymnastics, and swimming. They also have a couple of tutors to help them jump ahead. From what I hear, they’re doing great!”
“How old are they?”
“Two and four. And, it’s a tremendous step forward that they no longer keep score at their games. Don’t you think so? No one’s feelings should ever be hurt.”
“Well …”
“This little girl here,” he said, pointing to the dog, “she’s had to put up with so much with all these people around. I’ve booked her a spa package.” He telescoped his neck away from me. “You’re a scientist, don’t forget. I’m doing what it takes for my family to adapt.” He pointed to the bulldozers with crawler tracks, blades, and rippers on the hill. “Look up there. More, that’s all that it’s about.”
“It’s not that simple. It’s not about being the biggest or the strongest. It’s about being the most adaptable to change.”
“Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion.”
“That’s not what we’re debating.”
“Let’s just agree to disagree.” By now, he was motioning his contractor to switch around something when he patted me on the shoulder. “Someone’s got to be poor for us to be rich.”
“I …”
“You look tired. Have you been taking your sleeping pills, or have you considered getting a facelift to look less tired?”
“I don’t think that’s the solution; it’s just too much work we’re doing.”
“Oh, stop complaining,” he said, looking away. “I need something from you, B. Do you want to adapt?” He grinned and elbowed me slightly.
TIME 1
GREATCO (“Celebrate the joy that everything can be yours!”) ISLANDS MASTER-PLANNED COMMUNITY
11:05 AM
To enter Joaquin’s housing community, I pass by the