Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

Maximus often pondered issues of global importance. He was quite sure that if he were the Khagan he could fix everything that was wrong in the country. Not just the country—the whole world!

Clinging onto the overhead strap in the metro car, Semipyatnitsky found himself empathizing with the Chinese. It’s even worse over there. Thanks to the wise and flexible leadership of the Chinese Communist Party, everyone’s standard of living has improved. It’s not so obvious in the provinces, but in the capital, Beijing, and other big cities the changes are striking. The problem is that prosperity has brought along with it Western ideas about the good life, which decree that everyone must have his or her own car. And if there are one and a half billion of those car-hungry people?

A thick cloud of exhaust hovers in the air over Beijing, visible even from outer space, and it will never clear.

And where are you going to come up with enough fuel to supply all of China?

Even if the government of the People’s Republic manages to buy up all the oil deposits and refineries in Africa, it still won’t be enough.

Semipyatnitsky had watched a show on the Euronews channel about the Chinese automobile crisis.

This problem, like many others, Semipyatnitsky believed, required a solution not patterned after the American notion that “bigger and faster,” ever-increasing growth would save the day—this was already leading civilization into a dead end—but rather a Completely Different Principle (CDP). And he had come up with what he considered to be a very good one.

Long before the advent of the pseudo-science of marketing people like Philip Kotler, the writer Mark Twain (or was it O. Henry?) taught that if there was no demand, then demand must be created. And he’d written a great short novel in which a young man, a diplomat representing the United States of America on some tropical island, comes up against what would seem to be an impossible challenge: The inhabitants of the island go barefoot year ’round. His fiancée’s father is obsessed with the idea of starting a shoe business, and has had an entire shipload of footwear delivered to the tropical paradise. So as not to disappoint his future father-in-law, the diplomat, American to the marrow, comes up with an elegant solution: He buys up tons of prickly thorn seed pods from farmers on the continent and secretly, overnight, with the help of some friends, strews them all over the island’s lawns and pathways. He then follows up with a PR campaign teaching the islanders that these prickly pods, which they have never seen before, are in fact a swarm of poisonous insects that has flown in from across the ocean. And the only way to protect themselves is to wear shoes at all times…

The reverse theorem must also be true. Call it anti-marketing, a theory devised by Maximus Semipyatnitsky, mid-level manager, writer on the side.

If demand cannot be satisfied, it must be destroyed.

What do we need cars for? I’ve already dealt with the female side of the problem; let’s talk about men now. If we discard the nonessential, quasi-religious views propagated by aggressive advertisers, automobiles serve one basic purpose: driving people around. Primarily to and from work.

Every morning employees flood out of the residential districts to their offices, and every evening they head back home. Sociologists call this phenomenon “pendulum migration” and consider it to be one of the most serious problems facing modern society.

But why go to the office in the first place? Who even needs an office?

Ninety percent of office work can be done anywhere, any place that has Internet and phone connections—at home for example. And even the remaining ten percent—briefings and business meetings—can be conducted virtually, using modern technology, from any distance.

People also use cars to do their shopping, though. But this problem will disappear on its own when, as Semipyatnitsky predicts in another as yet uncompleted book, everyone leaves their apartments and houses to live in the malls full time.

Semipyatnitsky hurried from the metro station toward the office, his head teeming with these profound thoughts on the ways of the corporate world. They weren’t at all abstract; on the contrary, they were utterly practical. You see, the Cold Plus corporation had made a unilateral wager with its employees: “I bet you can’t make it to work by nine A.M.!” If an employee loses, he has to pay a fine. His paycheck will be docked, without right of appeal. If the employee wins, his reward is that nothing will happen to him.

“So what demon chases me out of the house every morning, makes me dash out onto the street, rushing all the while, in a lather like a race horse, to reach a stuffy, crowded workplace on time, when I could do everything, make those calls and send those e-mails, from home?”

Maximus blurted this out loud, having lost control of himself yet again, while standing at the crosswalk waiting for the green “walk” light.

At that precise moment Maximus heard a malicious cackling just behind his left shoulder. Semipyatnitsky turned and saw a spry-looking old man of indeterminate age and curious appearance behind him. The old man was garbed in an ill-fitting blue double-breasted jacket, green trousers, and red shoes with pointed toes. A venomous-looking yellow necktie completed the picture.

“Late for work, young man?”

The forced sympathy in the old man’s voice surpassed the heaviest sarcasm. Maximus’s glance slid across a large round badge pinned to his new acquaintance’s chest, identifying him as a sidewalk marketing specialist. Fiery red letters against a white background spelled out a bold invitation: “Get rich quick: Ask me how.”

“You don’t have to go, you know. That is, you brought this on yourself. Going to the office, sitting at the computer, putting up with a stupid boss… But you can still change everything. And right now you have a unique opportunity! We have a special offer, just for you.”

“O God!” thought Semipyatnitsky. The old man seemed to twitch momentarily, though Maximus might have just imagined it. All in all, the encounter was a surprise, if a mild one. It had been several years since he’d encountered this particular brand of street salesman; not so long ago they had thronged the sidewalks, accosting naïve passersby, besetting them with get-rich-quick schemes and fleecing them for easy cash.

Maximus smirked and interrupted the peddler of illusions:

“You’re right, it is a unique opportunity. I didn’t expect to run into you. I must confess, I had assumed that your type had gone extinct, had died of starvation and disillusionment, leaving your bodies draped on top of stacks of boxes of miracle powders in communal apartments that in the Soviet days used to belong to distant aunts with heart diseases, and which you acquired, along with the job title of supreme supervisor, in exchange for the powder. Do you know how we used to deal with your brand of so-called businessmen back then? Ask me if I want to lose weight, and I’ll tell you where you can go.”

Contrary to Semipyatnitsky’s expectations, the geezer didn’t take offense. He smiled even more broadly, exposing a row of fake yellow fangs, and emitted a stream of words:

“Oh no, it’s not at all what you think! This is a completely new system! And yet it’s as old as the world itself, and has truly passed the test of time! Success is guaranteed; all you have to do is decide! No gimmicks whatsoever, it’s all completely legal and legitimate! All I need from you is your signature on this splendid contract!”

The old man reached into his leather briefcase and produced a few sheets of paper, covered with fine print and held together with a metallic green paper clip. Maximus could have sworn that the man hadn’t been holding a leather briefcase a second before. He cast a nervous, hopeful glance at the stoplight. It was still red.